


You've Got to Make It Through, I Can't Live Without You

by La_Rapsodia_Incantata



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: ;"))), A lot - Freeform, Aftercare, Alright folks, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Begging, Big Reveal, Bottom!Paul, But I guess the summary tells you guys something, But its not the typical story I tell you!!!, Cock Ring, Confessions, Dirty Talk, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Featuring the French Language, Flashbacks, Frottage, Hair Pulling, Here comes the, Hhhhhh, Homophobic Language, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I apologize for that, I don't think I'd opt to use tags unless absolutely necessary, I know I know very original considering, I've got y'alls covered, IT BEGINS, In a McDonald's, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, Just one slur but it's still there, Light BDSM, Like, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Mentions of Bigotry and Prejudice, Nevertheless everyone's disappointed, Oof okay sorry for the wrong rating, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Phew I think that's all for now, Reassurances, Ringo isn't faring well with his headache and stomachache, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Since they dine in a French cafe, Some cuddles and a bit more than just that, Spanking, The Plot Thickens, This is going to be a rather lengthy fic so, This relationship may not be completely monogamous after all, Throwing up; Non-Graphic, after such a long damned time i know, and sadly it aint the sun, and the title, anywayyyyy, because, because rings tries to Idiom™ but fails miserably, but anyway, but i hope you guys enjoy this NEW chapter, but itll be okay, but like, by, causeeee reasons, courtesy of rory storm, cue the failed Idioms™, don't worry guys, eh, everything, feat. ringo's new ringtone, fixed it, geo whacks him on the head, ha, haha - Freeform, hangovers, hhhh okay thats all byeee, hlrkn, hmmmm, i think, is that the right term, its a bit different from the irl one, john gets passive-aggressive, krjglrekgneng, note about this virus guys, oh i forgot to clarify, okay thats it for now, pol is sicc, really REALLY thickens, the underage tag just means there are flashbacks somewhat, theyre of age in the here and now of this story, top!John, uh, where, yay another chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:41:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24586288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Rapsodia_Incantata/pseuds/La_Rapsodia_Incantata
Summary: It's the year 2019, and there've been a few rumors about a novel disease spreading. Things only go downhill from there.
Relationships: Brian Epstein/George Martin, George Harrison/Ringo Starr, John Lennon/Paul McCartney, Past George Harrison/Paul McCartney
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	1. In Which The Author Panics About The Last Part Of The Chapter (Dear Reader, Please Don't Skip Ahead)

**Author's Note:**

> HHHH Okay, guys. This will be my first multi-chapter fic for this fandom, so uhh yeah. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this and hit me up on Tumblr at hungarianrhapsodyof1986 if you have any questions or wanna chat! 
> 
> I would also like to thank Daisy for reviewing this! You're marvelous, luv.

**October 9, 2019**

  
  


“I just thought it’d be a brilliant idea to celebrate in a place most apt!” 

“Fucking brilliant idea—Paul, we’re in a fucking McDonald’s, for Christ’s sake!” John exclaims, pointedly drilling a hole through his boyfriend’s head with an intense stare as he avoids the people giving him a dirty look from their seats in the restaurant. He merely rolls his eyes when Paul giggles. “What gave ye the idea tha’ McDonald’s would be the best place to celebrate our fucking anniversary!” 

Paul’s little giggles evolve into a full-on laugh, complete with shaking shoulders and the roaring chortles that always make John blush with pride whenever he hears them. He’s broken through Paul’s many sturdy barriers surrounding his exuberant self (which John’s rarely seen beyond the comforts of privacy or liquid courage), and that piece of Paul’s been set free; even for the slightest moment. John feels more gazes fall upon them, now that incoherency in their exchange has been achieved. He is, by no means, a man of patience, and although he’d like to shout at the other customers to bugger off and mind their own bloody business, he doesn’t want his Paulie to feel upset. It is their first anniversary after all.

“It’s also yer birthday, John. Don’t ye forget that,” Paul reminds him, wiping the tears from his eyes.

“Me birthday. Right.” John nods and glances around. “So. Why McDonald’s?”

“For someone as creative as ye, yer pretty slow.”

“Well, Macca! I won’t be able to figure out why the hell ye’ve decided to try out this place all of a bloody sudden.”

“Mc-Donald’s. Mc-Lennon. Eh? Eh?”

John groans, dipping a soggy fry into the ketchup-mayo mix. Mayo-ketchup? Whatever the hell they call ketchup mixed with mayonnaise. 

He takes a bite and chews. Paul’s features scrunch up in an expression John perceives as one of disgust, making him smile. Paul’s eyes are trained on the limp fry, which probably look too pathetic for his liking, and John’s gaze flicks to the unopened box of an apple pie that lays on the table between them.

“Ye have somethin’ waitin’ for ya there,” he remarks.

“That pie’s gonna murder me, John.”

“Ye told me ye’d be headin’ out of this place without a single leftover; don’t tell me ye’re suddenly willing to break tha’ promise to yerself. And before you say something more, ye clarified tha’ givin’ whatever would be left to George counts as ‘breaking the rules’ or whatever ye tried to get at.”

John huffs a breathy chuckle as he hears Paul swear under his breath. Watching as Paul opens his mouth to take the first bite of his apple pie, he waits for the moment he could ask the question that has been niggling at the back of his mind since their third celebratory snog.

“What happened to the lads? And here I was, thinking they’d be joining our little celebration,” he says, when the opportunity is granted to him.

Paul shifts in his seat, chewing slightly harder than usual until he accidentally seems to bite the inside of his lip. 

Even a fool would be capable of catching a lying Paul McCartney—the man is as transparent as glass. He seems to be the antithesis of John—open and free, where John is guarded, living by a strict set of rules he’s created for himself since he was young. Living with a father far from ideal hardened him since childhood, and because of that, the only people he’s ever trusted are his mother, Paul, George, and Ringo. Aunt Mimi (whom he also undoubtedly trusts) was also a formidable figure in John’s early life, but she was caring in the way his father wasn’t. Though that changed nothing too much, he is relieved to having had her in his life.

“Ye all right there?” he asks.

Muttering a final ‘fuck, that hurts,’ Paul breaks into a manic smile. “Quite good now, yeah,” he says and puts down his apple pie. “George and Ringo are busy with uni right now. Their schedule’s a right bitch.”

“I’m supposing they’re busier than us, then? Well, that’s rich, considering the fact that we’re out ‘ere celebratin’ our arses off despite the tons of uni work waitin’ for our much-coveted attention.”

“This is our anniversary, John. I don’t reckon ye’d like them to join us, hmm?”

“Yer forgettin’ that it’s me birthday as well.”

Paul struggles to form proper words, repeatedly opening his mouth to utter a small ‘uh’ before clicking his jaw shut.

“My, my, my,” John teases, mock-surprisedly. “Have I caught ya in a lie?”

Perfectly shaped eyebrows creasing, Paul glares at John and says, “Well, it’s not much of an achievement, if we both remember.”

It’s John’s turn to break into wild laughter because what Paul’s saying is absolutely true. He remembers fondly how Paul would fail at conjuring reasons to touch him at random times.

“‘M tired, John. I thought to lean against ye for a bit. George told me to do this, I swear! Come now, ye know there’s that camera that’s just watching us all the bloody time... We should pose for a picture!” John crows, watching with delight as Paul turns a lovely shade of red. 

When John’s laughter dies down, Paul tells him, “I’d arranged a birthday surprise for ya back at our flat. Now ‘m gonna have t’ask ye to act all surprised-like!”

“Booze and shite like tha’?”

Paul gives a guilty nod.

“Ah, Paulie, this ain’t an Oscar, but it’s a good enough reward for me to get me actin’ skills on.”

“Oh? Then maybe ye’d be up for a trickier acting job for an even greater prize?” Paul utters, a little quieter. John knows this isn’t necessary, as the cacophony in the restaurant drowns out their voices anyway, so he comes to the next plausible conclusion: It is one of those Things; those Things that they only ever talk about either between them or amongst their little and tight circle of four: the part of their lives they refuse to divulge unto anybody else. It is sacred to them—weighty and respected.

“And what kind of prize would that be?”

John then feels the weight of a hand against his knee, and he closes his eyes as Paul leans in to whisper in his ear. “Whatever you want it to be,” he hears, and lets his guard down for a bit, losing a shivery puff of air as he hears Paul chuckle darkly. A rapacious glide from near the clothed top of his right thigh, and he almost insists that they leave the restaurant before his arousal grows too hard to hide.

“Not here,” John growls. Paul regains composure and clears his throat. He looks at John with an expression akin to that of awe, and John is reminded of the confession Paul made one night when they’d gotten into an argument over the closed mindset John gets when focusing on a task. 

_ “I love it when ye respond to me, when I cast ye a flirtatious glance, and ye realize tha’ I’m doin’ it for ya and not some other bird or bloke in the crowd. I love it when ye turn red because of me kisses, ‘cause it shows me how much ye love me in return. I know that no one else could stand a chance if they tried doing the same to ya, love,” _ Paul said that time, and although the argument continued for a few minutes longer, John remembers those words and has taken them to heart, commanding himself to remember Paul’s utter devotion to him.

The corners of Paul’s lips turn up in a devious smirk. “Tempted, aren’t ye?”

John isn’t perturbed. “Finish yer apple pie, Paulie, and I’ll finish me fries.”

  
  


***

John is fairly sure that Paul’s ‘surprise’ wasn’t supposed to feature George and Ringo huddling over a tiny phone screen, one set of earphones shared between them as they laugh. It is as if they weren’t surrounded by bottles of booze. John glances at Paul, who is looking at the pair blankly. He’s set to have a bloody fit, John thinks.

“George. Ringo.”

“Hey everybody, it’s ya boi RingoBongo again, and today we have a special guest!” Ringo’s voice echoes through the hallway as he adjusts his phone’s camera. “C’mon, George, say somethin’!”

“Um, hello. I’m George Harrison, and, ah, a pleasure to meet ye all... Though, I am assuming ye’ve heard ‘bout me at this point ‘cause of him,” George says, obviously lacking more words, as he’s been forced into an uncomfortable position. John, Paul, and Ringo know him as the type who’d prefer to prepare for social situations, although he’s been handling the gigs and interviews well, facing them with an attitude easily mistaken as aloof until he’s got just the answer the band didn’t know they needed.

“Charming, ain’t he? For all ye lovely girls or boys who love the silent type—” he moves his face closer to the cam and whispers conspiratorially, “—he’s on the market.”

George nudges him on the shoulder and makes the most impressive eye-roll any of them has ever seen him do. 

Ringo moves the camera far from him. “Then again, I am too!” he claims, then proceeds to record a full panoramic shot of the hallway. “We’re currently in the hallway outside our flat, waiting for our beloved Paulie to start screamin’ at us for being unable to follow yet another one of his brilliant plans. See, it’s our Johnny Lemon’s birthday and the McLennons’ first anniversary today. Wow, right? Georgie and I hung around their flat last night before Paul pounced on John at around eleven and forgot the spare key to their apartment, which we were supposed to—”

“Ye forgot the fuckin’ key in our flat?” Paul demands, and Ringo reached the perfect angle to see a fuming Paul McCartney with his hands on his hips.

Ringo nearly drops his phone as he sputters a quick ‘peace and love’ before ending the video. George tries to remain a figure of indifference, but his composure isn’t as calm and collected as he wanted it to be then. His eyes are a fraction wider than usual, and he’s stopped munching on his biscuits like a deer caught in headlights. He’s been with Paul since they were children sneaking into each other’s rooms when nights were particularly lonely and dull, and he’s well-acquainted with his anger. Needless to say, he’s terrifying when he wants to be.

“Oi, mate,” Ringo mutters so that only George would hear. “Where did we last put the key, again? I swore I put it in yer pocket.”

“In me bloody pocket? Hell, I think I’d know if ye were puttin’ a lump of metal in me arse!”

“I swore I did! I remember!”

“If it helps any of you resolve this,” John added, looking sardonically pleased. “I found one of our flat keys on the coffee table this mornin’.”

“Maybe that’s yers?” Ringo offered. To George, he whispered, “‘M not passing up an opportunity to call ye out on that obnoxiously kinky thing ye just said.”

“I thought I knew better now,” George huffed. “Alright, Paul. Sorry we couldn’t make this day perfect for either of you—especially for you, John. It’s yer fuckin’ birthday, for fuck’s sake—”

Paul’s stance of attempted dominance slackens, and one hand drops to his side as the other grasps one of John’s and squeezes. He’s done that on many an occasion when George managed to get them out of whatever messes they’d gotten themselves into, and John’s taken it to mean that whatever anxieties Paul’d felt were finally vanquished. He gives a reassuring squeeze in return as to say, _ “It’s all good, Macca. Ye don’t have to be afraid.” _

“Right,” Paul nods. “While I unlock our door, John will be helping the two of ye pick up all those bottles of booze ye got there. From the stash, aren’t they?”

George looks at John’s hopeful expression and grins, vampiric canines flashing. “Aye. Got ‘em nearly a year ago when the store was newly resupplied. Goodness knows how many other customers Ritchie and I had to tackle just to get some of the stuff. Probably stoned, they were... It was too easy a fight.”

Ringo pockets his phone after wrapping the earphones around it. He aids George and John pick up the bottles and hurries into John’s and Paul’s flat carrying the astonishing amount of three large wine bottles in his hands.

“Brought some of that weed ye kept barkin’ ‘bout, George?” Ringo asks.

“Would’ve loved to bring it, actually, but our Paul doesn’t think it’s ‘romantic’ enough to be consumed today,” George replies, almost bumping into Paul as the latter heads out to get the last two wine bottles from the floor. 

“Look, Paulie, I don’t see the fuckin’ problem. Ye wanna fuck yer man? It’s better if yer high,” Ringo says.

“Says the man who hasn’t gotten laid since year twelve,” Paul shouts, running back into his shared flat with John before any of their other neighbors could look who just yelled that in the hallway. He locks the door, ignoring Ringo’s, “I swore off one-night stands since that fling I had after Mo and I... y’know.”

“Ye know, I’m quite amused by all this...” John remarks, looking at the unopened wine bottles, which were placed on the dining table for later celebration and consumption, with a sudden thirst that made his throat feel parched and yearn for something to drink. “We always complain about how broke we all are, and yet we get ourselves just about eight or nine bottles of wine that we could finish in within a week or less.”

“Nice to see that yer also concerned ‘bout our finances,” Paul teases. “But ye hush now; the wines were worth it. They were for ya after all.”

“It’s yer birthday, Johnny-boy, and if yer crap father wouldn’t do somethin’ for ye, we will,” Ringo says.

George says nothing, but when their gazes meet, John knows George understands. Despite having a loving mother watching over him, George was still distant from his family just as he and Paul were. It was George’s choice, he knew, to keep a distance, and although he doesn’t quite understand why his friend would decide to do that, he respected his decision anyway. George possesses something like an all-seeing eye that knows exactly how someone feels just by taking a glance at them, and that was a talent John had long coveted. He supposed he wouldn’t be as wary as he was now if he had that gift, but some things just don’t come to some people, he knew.

“Right. Time?” John asks.

“Sun’s nearly gone; must be at least somewhere around 9, or somethin’ like tha’” Ringo says.

George gives a long-suffering sigh. “There’s a fuckin’ watch for a reason,” he murmurs under his breath as he raises his wrist to take a glance at the watch his grandfather gave him before his death. It’s a story he refuses to tell anyone and will most likely keep to himself up to the grave.

“9:23.”

“We spent an hour and a half in a McDonald’s?” John exclaimed. He looked at Paul accusingly as George took his unfinished packet of biscuits from his pockets and fell onto the couch, Ringo hastily joining him.

“Hey, I finished eating first!” 

“Christ. I hope Mimi calls or something. It’s their anniversary, and they’re gonna celebrate it by bitin’ their ‘eads off like they do every day,” Ringo said. He leaned against George as the man chomped on his biscuits like a happy child eating their favorite meal. He doubted George would share, but he wanted to give it a try anyway. He had had some food back in his and George’s flat, but he was still hungry. George was a very efficient flatmate who could cook well and do the laundry, and he did half of the labour that they required to keep the two of them alive. He never thought he’d meet someone like that in his life, even more to have said person as a close friend.

The problem was—when George cooked; he cooked a lot. The food was delicious, and Ringo couldn’t help but get himself second  and third servings every time. During the first few weeks, the temptation was easy to ignore, but as he got comfortable with his place in the flat he shared with George, it grew increasingly difficult until it eventually became impossible. George had reassured him he could get as much as he wanted without worrying about anything, so who was he to resist? Now, he’s got a huge and raging appetite.

“Biscuit?” he asks, and somehow George senses his desperation so deeply that he reaches into his other pocket to bring out another packet of biscuits for him.

As George hands Ringo the packet, he swallows the chewed biscuit and places a finger against his lips. “Don’t ye tell Paulie. Tha’ man will grow mighty jealous.”

“—waitin’ for you all the damn time! Jesus Christ could come back before—”

John’s tirade is interrupted by his own phone’s ringtone.

“Oh, shit. It—”

“—It’s Aunt Mimi!” the three other Beatles whoop in unison. Nothing concerning here, just an exhibition of Beatle-culture.

“Shut the hell up, or I’ll be stuffin’ those bottles down yer throats when the call is over,” John threatens, then proceeds to answer the call. “Hello, Aunt Mimi. It’s John.”

“Happy birthday, John, you dastardly boy! How old are you now?” Aunt Mimi screeched into the phone, making John pull the phone away from his ear and put her on speakerphone. He knew he’d regret it, but it would make everything much more convenient for everyone when she engages in a quick conversation with all of them. He walks to the couch to get closer to both George and Ringo, and Paul follows.

“Ye... ye practically raised me...” John said, trying to inject the slight bitterness of hurt into his tone. He loved teasing her that way—acting up and making all these light dramatics that she absolutely despises, that’s their ‘tough love’ for one another.

“And that’s why I’m asking you! Just wanted to make sure you hadn’t forgotten your own birthday. How was it so far?”

“‘S been going pretty well—Paulie’s treatin’ me—”

“Ah! Paul, yes! Are you there, darling?”

“Here, Aunt Mimi,” Paul checks in, ever-so-cheerful.

“John hasn’t been a complete arse to you, has he?”

Paul eyes John mischievously. John looks on the verge of being afraid, but he looks more annoyed than anything.  _ ‘I dare ye’ _ he mouths, although it lacks the amount of threat he was trying to convey. 

“Oh, no! No, no, no, Auntie! He’s been well-behaved. An actual angel, really.”

“‘An ‘actual angel?’’” Mimi bellows, letting out a series of loud laughs that echo throughout the flat. 

“If I know something about my Johnny, it’s that he’s anything but. Come on, boy, what are you hiding from me?”

Paul sighs good naturedly. “Well, we did get into a couple of minor arguments over the course of the day, but that’s all right. It happens.”

“Right you are.”

A pause.

“Are George and Ringo there with the two of you, John?” Aunt Mimi asks then.

“Yes, Aunt Mimi. They’re listenin’.”

“Hi, Auntie Mimi!” Ringo yelps, just as George greets her with a simple ‘hello, Auntie.’

“Oh, you boys! You got my present for John with you?”

“Safely stored in our flat. We were s’posed to hide it somewhere here in John’s and Paul’s but Ringo forgot their spare key the night before,” George says, waiting in absolute delight for Mimi’s reaction. She’s always loved Ringo the most, second to John, but she’s just as strict about his sense of responsibility as she is for the rest of theirs. Ringo visibly pales—he’s also got Mimi’s contact in case of emergency, and if by chance she doesn’t laugh this off, he won’t be getting any sleep later that night (and maybe the better part of the morning tomorrow). Thank God it’s a bleeding Saturday.

“We’ve had this conversation many times before, Starkey,” Mimi scolds. “I’ll be letting it go this once.”

“Thank fuck,” Ringo breathes, a little louder than he intended. George claps a hand on his mouth, but it’s too late, and all they can do is share nervous looks while praying to whatever deity that their distance from the phone’s mic is enough just for Mimi not to hear anything.

“I won’t hold you boys back from your night of merriment. You’ve probably ten bottles of wine or liquor waiting for you in your cupboards,” Mimi sighs.

“Not to worry, Auntie! We’ve got... just eight, so ye don’t have to worry much about us,” John smirks.

“Hmph. All right. Don’t get too drunk, boys. And happy birthday, John... Love you, dear.”

“Love you, Aunt Mimi,” John responds, throat feeling tight.

“Talk to you soon, Auntie!” Paul says, speaking for the other three with him. The call ends, and they peek out the window.

“Sun’s down,” George says, and Paul flicks on all the light switches to brighten up the place. The overhead lights come to life, and everyone groans at the sudden brightness.

“What do we do then?” Ringo asks, just as John disappears into the hallway where the door to his and Paul’s room is located. “Why’re ye goin’ there, John?”

“Jus’ gettin’ me glasses!” John explains. “‘M gettin’ tired of these blasted contacts!”

“I’ll be settin’ the music then,” George states, standing from the couch. “I’d definitely fancy a jam, but we all remember what happened the last time we tried.”

“Let’s not think about tha’ now, hm?” Paul says, shivering as he remembers the last time they’d started a jam session; a session a group of armed and daring muggers abruptly ended. They were amateurs at best, but the four of them had been completely unprepared—George ended up defending both John and Paul (who were by the dining table, jotting down some lyrics) with his beloved guitar. Ringo was pretty much as intimidating as a pillow before getting hold of himself. Now, he has a scar on his upper arm due to being sliced by the shiv, but he’d driven the muggers away and reported it to the police before the situation could deteriorate any further. From then on, Paul had refused to jam in their flat. Like a mother hen, he watched over his bandmates and sought their manager Brian “Eppy” Epstein for help concerning gigs and practices. They now have contact with a place with rentable rooms somewhere a few miles away for sessions.

“‘Ey, why’re ye still gettin’ glasses when we can just... drink straight from the bottle?” Ringo inquires, choosing to comment on that instead of George choosing the music.

Paul scoffs with no intended malice. “It’s just so that we can get as much as we want without wasting anything. Remember, there’s a new disease goin’ round, and ‘m not risking anything.”

“Yer talkin’ like yer not gonna be fuckin’ John like mad later on.”

George actually snorts, but Paul doesn’t look the single bit scandalized. Depending on his mood, Paul would either shut down a suggestive comment or make it combust like lit motor fuel. Seems the day and time’s just right to be saying those kinds of things, as Paul smirks and says, “Hm, well. I may be a complete hypocrite by saying that, then, but I don’t regret admitting to wanting to have him screamin’ me name until ye guys can hardly sleep.”

“Look, Paul,” George sighs. “We all want ye two to have a fun, fulfilling sex life together... but not at the expense of yer neighbors’ health.”

“Suppose ye want ‘im to buy a gag, then?” John snarks, genuinely and wholly tickled by his own suggestion. He sounds decidedly nonchalant about it, and he loves just how George rolls his eyes as Ringo widens his own. Paul’s cheeks visibly redden, and John observes the way he sucks his lower lip into his mouth. Got him, voices his internal monologue.

Queen starts blasting throughout the flat, and John skips to the dining table, where his friends have gathered to get some wine for themselves. 

Before John could get his wine glass, Paul snatches it from where it sits on the table. “Give us a kiss,” he demands, pouting his lips, and John laughs a ‘fuck you’ before leaning in to give one.

One kiss leads to two, then three more, but before Paul could deepen the kiss, John pushes him away. This doesn’t frustrate Paul, because he knows how much of an impatient man his boyfriend is. If John’s patience snapped, they’d be at it before they did any more celebrating, and Paul wanted all of them to savor this day.

“I’ll be gettin’ the presents from the flat,” George whispers to Ringo.

Ringo clears his throat as he nods. Paul and John’s attentions are diverted from each other, and they realize that they’ve been staring at each other for a solid 20 seconds.

“Uh, right!” Paul exclaims. “George, where’re ye goin’?” 

“Just gettin’ a few things from the flat. I’ll be back in a little while,” George replies and shuts the door behind him.

“Oh. All right,” Paul says dumbly. He smiles back at John and sets one wineglass down to get the opened bottle of wine. “Here ye go, love,” he says, filling up John’s glass.

“Such a gentleman!” John teases, imitating a fainting cartoon character just to cover up the spike of anxiety that strikes him. “Lucky lad, aren’t I?”

However, Paul sees through his theatrics (one of John’s coping mechanisms) and places the wine bottle back on the table to embrace John. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into John’s ear. He mentally slaps himself for forgetting such an important thing about John. 

John had a deeply ingrained mentality that he relied on the few people he trusted far too much. He’d cared for and watched over himself since he was in kindergarten, and he grew unreceptive to the idea of relying on the people he knew loved him, much less entrusting his life to anyone. He put great trust in Mimi in his early years and the other Beatles in his more recent ones, but he trusted Paul most. Despite that, he still had much to work on, and though he knew Paul was naturally courteous and trustworthy, he still had the fear of him being the opposite, no matter how irrational of a concept he believed it was. Paul helped him through it, but sometimes they’d still hit the point where they’d struggle. He wouldn’t let go for anything.

John returns the hug for a bit then pulls away, sipping his wine. Paul smiles apologetically at Ringo, who’s been struggling to find something to focus on but his and John’s exchange. Ringo just shakes his head and raises a hand, a small gesture just to tell him it was all right. Not that he was repentant—he and John share the ‘no shame’ mindset when in public, even if he was more conscious of what they say and do. Many a time they had practically almost had sex in public, and George and Ringo were subject to watching their ministrations, as they were nearly glued together at the hip.

The three Beatles slowly sip their wine while they wait for George to return, as Freddie Mercury continues to croon. Out of habit, Ringo marks every beat of the song with a gentle tap of his foot while Paul listens to the bass; John refills his glass.

Their heads turn to the door when they hear it bang open. “Ringo, ye fuckin’ slob!” George scolds, the moment he lands his sights on Ringo. “Ye licked me Pringles when I wasn’t lookin’, didn’t ye! Tasted one and it was bloody horrible! If yer gonna be eatin’ food, ye eat it as a whole, not—not fuckin’—lickin’ it and returnin’ it when it’s got no harkin’ taste!”

“But Georgie, ye love me!” Ringo pleads. “Yer not gonna murder me for tha’, are ye?” 

George stares at Ringo’s too-still frame and sighs. “Yer fuckin’ right, I love ye. But listen to what I just said, yeah? That’s fuckin’ unsanitary.”

“Actin’ like a married couple already, I see,” John says. He takes a sip. “What are ye holdin’ there?”

“Just our presents. Mine and Ringo’s, Aunt Mimi’s, and Eppy’s and George Em’s.”

Paul hums. “Never thought Eppy would give presents to any of us.”

“Conspiracy theory: Brian Epstein loves his chaotic sons, the Beatles, confirmed,” Ringo responded, helping George with some of the wrapped items in his arms.

“Who wouldn’t love us? We’re angels,” John joked. He refilled his glass again and put the glass down on the dining table to help George. Paul soon does the same and joins in, marveling at the lumpiness of one present. There’s a small card that reads, “Darling John, happy birthday,” and Paul figures that one’s from Mimi. He looks at what George is holding, and it seems to be a thick, flat object. It’s not large, but it’s not small either. 

“Who’s that one from?” he asked.

“Eppy and George Em, apparently,” George answered.

“Knowing those two, it’ll probably be something posh and laden in gold,” John says.

“Maybe posh, but I don’t know about ‘laden in gold’” Paul comments.

“So we probably should open the presents now,” Ringo suggests. “With our attention being on the presents and all tha’.”

“Sounds like a neat idea. I love the anticipation, but at least we’d be able to focus on other things,” Paul says.

John groans. “That’s just an innuendo.”

“Yer thinking of it again, luv,” Paul smiles.

“Let’s just get this present opening thing over with. Whatever I’m carryin’ are bloody heavy,” George says, readjusting his grip on the presents he’s holding.

Paul and John, being the ones carrying the smaller packages, set the presents they carried on the floor and moved the coffee table away. They sat across from George and Ringo, and John rested his back against the front of the couch as Paul rested his head on his shoulder.

“I’ll just be gettin’ the wine, eh?” Ringo said, immediately rising after having settled the items he’d been holding on the spot on the floor beside him.

“Go on, Ritchie. Hopefully, we’d remember which glass is ours,” John laughed.

“I don’t mind a little switcheroo... we’ve done that quite a lot by now,” George shrugged.

“Come on, lads. Ye’ve all heard of that virus tha’s been going ‘round...” Paul chided, eyebrows creasing. “Ye ought to exhibit more caution.”

“We’re not sick, Paul. Don’t you worry about that now,” George says softly. He didn’t want to come off as irritated, but he wasn’t sure if he hit the right tone. Nevertheless, Paul huffs gently and shakes his head, the beginnings of a smile forming on his face as John uses his free hand to massage his scalp.

“Ye remember which one’s yers?” Ringo asks, holding one wineglass with each hand. 

“If I recall correctly, mine’s the one that looks newly refilled,” John replies, his outstretched hand reaching Ringo’s halfway through the distance between them. “Thanks, mate,” he continues, taking the nearly overfilled glass and taking a big gulp.

“Woah there, John, lad,” Ringo comments, sputtering at John as he wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “Take it easy. We’re not gonna steal it from ye.”

Cringing, John apologizes. “I’ve been waiting a year to drink this again, is all. It’s a bit strange—I used to drink so liberally that now ‘m tryin’ to cut down, I can’t seem to stop from itching for it.”

“All of us, ‘ere,” Paul says. “Glad we’re trying to stop, though. Four drunkards gettin’ together to stop drinkin’.”

“Drinkers Anonymous,” George suggests, and the four break into laughter.

“Quite right, there, George,” John points out.

George gets the other wine glass from Ringo’s hand. “This is mine, I think,” he says.

“Right. Paul, ye don’t mind helpin’ me out ‘ere? Just grab some bottles while I get our glasses?” Ringo asks.

Paul loathes to leave his comfortable place at John’s side, but he does so anyway. He turns the music down a bit and grabs two bottles from the dining table, surprised to find that one of them is close to finished. He dearly hopes they won’t end up drinking too much by the time George and Ringo return to their own flat, otherwise his intentions for John later on would end up unrealised. 

And who would like that? 

“All right, chaps, let’s get this over with, eh?” Paul says, resettling beside John. He takes John’s glass from where it is on the rug and places it on the coffee table. It’s not distant; it’s quite reachable if ever they’d like to take a sip from their glasses.

“Uh, see, we should probably start with this one,” George suggests, taking one of the bigger presents at his side. Paul and John seem to notice just now that the present George places carefully into the space between the four of them is unwrapped. 

“Go on, John,” Ringo says. “It’s from Aunt Mimi.”

The box felt cold against the pads of John’s fingers. He opened the top flap, the sweetly sour scent of his aunt’s familiar signature apple pie filling the living space. The scent was so overpowering that John can tell it was rather fresh, and he felt his mouth water. His stomach felt too full for another round of food (no matter how nostalgic and satisfied it would make him feel), so he took another long sniff and closed the box again.

“Ye’ve no idea how big of a struggle it was to get that pie delivered,” George said. “We needed to set up a Gophr account and all just to have a courier deliver it to our flat. We wouldn’t have minded a single bit if we went to pick it up ourselves, but we didn’t trust ourselves to be carryin’ the box around.”

“In the end, Aunt Mimi called us every 30 minutes to ask whether it had arrived safely. It was a nerve-wracking experience,” Ringo continued.

“I’ve always preferred her pies hot, but I wouldn’t mind trying it cold. And there’s an oven for a reason,” John said.

Paul punched him in the arm. “As if ye‘ll be the one reheating it! Ye can’t operate the stove to save yer life!”

“Ah, Macca. Ye underestimate me. There’s the manual, for one, and I know ye keep it in a file at the top of our bookshelf.”

“You seem to be organized,” George complimented brightly.

Paul took a sneaky glance at John and shrugged. “Someone has to be in this relationship.”

John looked at him, affronted. “Oi, it’s me birthday, y’know? Ye ought to be nicer to me than tha’,” he protested.

“Fine, fine. Ye can be incredibly slobbish sometimes, but yer neat when ye choose to be.”

John leaned into Paul’s space to peck him on the cheek. “Much better, love.”

Huffing, John turned back to the presents. “So. Which next?”

“Auntie Mimi specifically directed us to tell you to open her gifts first. She’s quite excited to hear yer reactions to the both of them,” George said. 

“She gave me two?” John asked, blinking as if he could not believe it. 

“Aye. Spoil ye rotten, she will.”

“As if Paul doesn’t already... Ye can ‘ear him do that at least twice a day!” Ringo countered, making Paul and George bark out in laughter. John nearly spat out the wine in his mouth, giving his glass to Paul before he could accidentally spill its contents.

“Anything for my dear Johnny,” Paul said, putting John’s glass on the coffee table. “He deserves the world... and a spectacular shag.”

John’s glare was half-hearted at best, as Paul was being uninhibited around them—just as he should be. John loved it when Paul went along with jokes about those things, because he knew that it was during those times when he felt most safe and free.

“Going back,” John said, hoping to draw the rest’s attention away from that topic. “Which one is the other present?” 

Paul took the present he’d carried just a while ago and placed it in the cradle of John’s lap. “I’d reckon it’s a blanket of some sort. It’s incredibly lumpy,” he said.

John tested its weight and shrugged. Moderately heavy. “Could be, yeah.”

“Oh, come on, then! Open it! She was particularly excited about this one—phoned me a couple months ago in the middle of the night to ask some things for it,” Ringo encouraged.

“Wait—a couple of months ago? Then why do I not remember that happening?” George asks disbelievingly. 

“Because you were most probably in the kitchen grabbin’ yerself the leftover cake from yer birthday celebration,” Ringo answers, picking at his sock. “But go on, John. She’ll be expectin’ an answer from ye tomorrow, I bet.”

“First thing in the morning,” John muttered. He read the tag and separated it from the wrapper before tearing it open.

Inside was a woolen coat that was beige and smelled just like Mimi’s home in Mendips—the sweet scent of roses mixed with the earthy scent of grass. It smelled like childhood somehow, and although John wouldn’t call himself a sentimental man, he also wouldn’t hesitate to say that he was someone with a soft character.

The coat was hooded and well-knitted, and John felt the braids that ran across it with much awe. Knitting was an artistry his aunt had mastered over the years; it had been a hobby for Mimi, and she lovingly knitted socks for John to wear when he was a little boy. He held the coat closer to his nose to breathe in the lovely scent that clung onto it.

“Ye all right there, John, luv?” Paul asked. He wrapped an arm around John and inched a little closer to him. 

John’s throat was once again tight. “Yes. I’m fine,” he said. Clearing his throat so it would not fail him, he placed the coat on the couch behind them gently and went back to the pile of presents waiting for him in the middle. He grabbed the heaviest-looking of the bunch—a solid block that weighed similar to four pounds of meat, to say the least.

“That one’s from Eppy and George Em,” George stated. “Whatever it is, they seemed really proud of it.”

“Let’s pray this is a lump of gold then,” John joked. “Sure could use some money in me pocket.”

John tore the wrapper open to reveal a plaque made of dark brass, the metal had a walnut-like hue with letters of a particularly lighter shade of brown engraved on it. 

“Well, bloody hell,” Paul remarked. He ran his fingertips over the sunken letters on the metal. “Eppy said nothing else about this?”

“Well, he told us to make sure ye read whatever’s on it. Seems like something ye should be doing,” Ringo said.

Paul looked down at the plaque. “‘Like the bee and the flower/May we always remember/That one is never meant to live alone nor apart/And that our love is a connection—an art.’ It’s got the date down there—our names too,” he said.

“Sappy gits.” John looked at Paul. “And they complain about our poetry!”

Paul stared blankly at John, whose gaze was already upon George and Ringo, ranting about Brian and Martin and their complaints. “But we ain’t written no poetry,” Paul said dumbly. He then tapped John’s shoulder.

“—and they think they can just—” John continued, and Paul tapped on him a little harder. “We ain’t written no poetry!” he remonstrated.

John stops his tirade only when George says his name firmly. 

“What?” John asked, a little breathless.

George pointed to Paul, who asked once again, “What ‘poetry?’”

“Y’know, Ringo’s phrases aren’t the only ridiculous ones I write down,” John said. 

“Don’t say ye’ve been posting mine on yer social media,” Paul warned gravely.

“Not exactly. I definitely would have liked to see everyone cringe because of yer dad jokes,” John articulates, looking up and shaking his head. 

“But... But ye love me dad jokes!” Paul gasps, pretending to look offended. He places a hand on his chest dramatically.

“Ye bet yer fuckin’ arse, I do,” John said. “Plus, Ringo would be more likely to post them on his accounts or some shite like tha’.”

“Wha’? Don’t lookit me!” Ringo squawked as soon as everyone’s eyes turned upon him. He turned to George. “Ye follow me! Have you ever seen one of ‘is jokes in my timeline?”

“Just some snarky comments ‘bout them sometimes,” George confesses, deadpan. “Other than that, yer fine.”

“So, lads,” John begins. He lifts the plaque for a moment. “Where d’ye suppose we put this?”

“Somewhere ye can easily see it in times of need,” George advises. “Ye two love to get into these spats from time to time, and while Ringo and I love ye both, we won’t be able to answer the door for ye every time ye knock.”

“He’s right, y’know,” Ringo says. 

Paul hums as John puts the plaque on the couch beside the coat. “We’ll figure it out. Anything else from Eppy and George Em?”

“Uh... yes, actually.” George grabs a rather-thin-looking package from the middle and hands it to John. “No fancy bow, but there’s a tag.”

Opening the tag, John reads the elegant scrawl with squinted eyes. He’s never been a fan of Brian’s handwriting. “Happy birthday, John. We hope you are well. Treasure each second of life, and remember that true success is not found in fame nor riches, but in the happiness you gain. Brian Epstein and George Martin.”

Nobody speaks as John tears open the wrapping paper, instead choosing to take sips from their glasses, Paul handing the close-to-empty wine bottle to George so he could get a refill.

“It’s stunning,” Paul muses, dragging his fingers across the glass of the frame that keeps John’s hand-drawn portrait safe. It’s a simple but remarkable present, John must say, and he gets the sudden thought of apologizing to Brian and Martin for the impeccable impatience and stubbornness he exhibits at times.

“Mind if we take a closer look at it?” Ringo asks. 

John hands him the framed sketch, and he whistles just as George leans in closer to take a better look.

“It really captures yer good looks perfectly. He’s handsome,” Ringo says.

“He’s ugly. And a bastard,” John corrects.

“He’s a handsome bastard with a heart of gold,” George insists. The look he gives John is hard, but the softness in his eyes is plain to see.

“He’s a handsome bastard with a heart of gold who doesn’t realize how much of a wonderful person he is,” Paul adds before John can say a word against it. “Those who dislike ye just don’t know ye, John. But we do.  _ We do. _ And what we can say is that despite that teddy-boy attitude you take up most of the time, yer just as much as a fucking sweetheart as a honey bear.”

They fall silent for a while, prompting George to hand John one of the remaining packages in the middle. Paul bunches John up in his arms and nuzzles his ear, whispering, “Come on, darling. That one next.”

“‘S from me this time. Thought ye’d open this one first,” George says, placing the parcel in John’s lap just as Paul takes John’s portrait and puts it to the right of the coat.

John opens the wrapped box and finds a customized mug.

“I have nothing to declare but my genius. Oscar Wilde. George—” John starts, but George raises a hand.

“Thought ye’d need that quote in particular when ye need some cheerin’ up. Yeah, ye can be such a bloody idiot sometimes, but yer fuckin’ brilliant when yer not, so, uh, I thought to give ye tha’.”

“It’s marvelous. Thanks, Georgie,” John says, examining the mug before placing it atop the coat.

“‘S really nothing when ye look at what Ritchie’s got for ye,” George confesses, smiling sheepishly at him. Shrugging, he turns to Ringo, who looks ready to leap out of his skin with excitement.

“I found it at the secondhand bookshop near campus. £4.85 for it, I tell ye. Pretty good deal, I think,” Ringo says giddily. “Hope it helps ye bring out the more... ‘poetic’ side of ye, eh?”

“Ye’ve really gone for the jugular ‘ere, eh?” John asks, holding reverently in his hands a slightly worn anthology of Oscar Wilde’s works. He skims through some pages and breathes in the scent of an old book before testing its weight again and rubbing the pad of his thumb over the cover.

“Ritch, ye do know this isn’t a competition to see who’s got the best birthday present, right? Yer gonna kill us, mate,” Paul chuckles. John allows him to examine the anthology, and he whistles when he grasps the truth of its thickness. 

“Oh, I think I’m sure. ‘M not clueless, y’know? Why would we need to make this a competition when we all know yer inevitably gonna turn up triumphant in the end?” Ringo answers with a smirk one can almost call suggestive.

“Well—I—” Paul couldn’t fathom why he’d still be left wordless at the comment. 

“Look at what ye’ve done to the poor lad, Ritchie!” John exclaims, faux-scandalized as Ringo and George bark laughter at the naughty glint in his eyes. They watch as he leans into Paul’s space to whisper, slightly sensually, into his ear. “Why, I can’t imagine having a hot, steamy shag, the heels of my feet at his back to spur him on as my moans bounce off the walls, reminding us exactly where we are and what we’re doing—”

“Don’t need to get into that headspace while we’re here, Lennon; lay off him until we leave, will ye? Yer gonna give Paul a horrible heart attack a’ this rate,” George playfully warns, unfazed by John’s words.

“Or a horrible hard-on, whichever ye prefer,” Ringo adds.

Paul, tomato-red, retaliates by pinching John at the waist. John squeals and squirms, ticklish, and strongly resists the desire to tackle Paul and dig his fingers into the spots he knows are most sensitive for him; pepper kisses at the spot behind Paul’s ear that he knows turns him into putty under his lips. He huffs instead and asks for the anthology back, placing it on the couch along with the other presents.

“We hope ye aren’t forgetting tha’ there’s still one more waitin’ for ya,” George states. “Ringo and I worked particularly hard on this one.”

“And we want the two of you to open it together. ‘S for yer anniversary; it seems only fittin’, don’t ye think?”

Paul and John share a glance as the former takes the parcel from Ringo. Wrapped neatly in a simple green paper, it looks quite unsuspicious. However, it does have a weight to it.

“Sorry we couldn’t do more with the presentation. We were knocked dead when we actually got to finish the damn thing. Exceptionally prompt, we were,” Ringo says.

“It’s a photo album,” John states dumbly.

“Well, open it, won’t ya? ‘S not like we’d give ye an empty fuckin’ album and claim we slaved over it like George does when finishing our leftovers.”

George comments on that, but his words are lost to both John and Paul when they see the many photographs of them compiled in the album. Most of them are candid shots—one of them features John sleeping against Paul’s side under the shade of a tree they’re certain is in the huge field at the Institute. Another features Paul gazing at John as the latter points at something in the distance, mouth wide open in laughter. No picture is the same, but if there is one common thing that they all share, it’s the warm feeling of love that radiates from each shot—it can be so clearly felt from a page alone.

“So. How d’ye like it, then?” George asks, bringing the two out of their shared reverie.

“It’s bloody amazing. How long have ye two been stalking us, hm?” Paul replies, fighting off a grin.

“3 weeks, give or take,” Ringo says, shrugging. “Ye basically slobber over one another all the fuckin’ time; t’ain’t difficult to actually amass some photographic evidence. Those printers had much to do.”

“Geo, Rings... This is...” John starts.

“Yer goin’ soft on us, lad?” Ringo teases. “Not tha’ we mind or anything, ‘s just. It can never be too much, y’know? This is for the both of ye, and ya help us much more than we let on.”

“Ye can torment us with yer excessive PDA, and we can go complainin’ ‘bout it,” George continues, rolling his eyes fondly once again. “But one thing we can’t do is hide the fact tha’ we’re happy for the both of ye, and tha’ we’re proud of ye for being there for one another even through the hardest of times.”

A moment of silence cuts through. It’s the comfortable kind of silence—not the kind that makes you think, “Uh oh, did I say something wrong?”

Nevertheless, Paul comments, “Wow. All me life, the last thing I’d ever predicted happening was having ye being proud of us maintaining a relationship.”

Ringo laughs. “Just make sure ye don’t break through the wall with the headboard, son.”

  
  


***

“Shit. Paul, I need you—I—”

“Shh, love. We’ll take it slow tonight, yeah?” Paul whispered. He mouthed at the soft spot behind John’s jaw, licking at sweat-slick skin. “Want to feel you.”

John merely shuddered and squirmed as Paul continued his ministrations. He’d been half-hard since he, Paul, George, and Ringo settled down to watch one of the bootlegged movies he’s got stored on one of the USB drives he keeps in the bedroom desk’s drawer. The movie had gone on without any of them being able to concentrate on it, as Paul had the most genius idea to tease John in the semi-darkness of the place, both George and Ringo unknowing of his actions because of their slightly drunken chatter. If John were to look back on it now, George and Ringo each had drunk more than both him and Paul combined, although the booze was easy to forget when your boyfriend was fondling you while pretending to watch a movie.

Paul’s kisses drift to John’s lips, John returning each with the same fervency he puts into their collaborations and music. Their kisses are slow but aren’t any less heated as those where their teeth would clash and tongues would fight for dominance.

John’s hands explore Paul’s back for the nth time, admiring the smooth skin; a rich contrast to the other parts of his body, abundant in thick hairs that he himself lacks on his own. It’s always been quite an issue for him; the way his body seems less masculine  than  he expected it to turn out when his voice began to drop. To him, Paul was everything he wasn’t; everything he aspired to be, and this is yet another aspect in which he and Paul complement one another in, as Paul sees John in the same light.

The thought that the manner of his touches has changed only occurs to John when Paul pulls back a bit to look at him in the eye and declare his love. 

“I love ye,” Paul announces. “I love every part of ya, from the top of yer head—” he kisses John’s strikingly auburn hair “—to yer handsome face—” he pecks John on the tip of his nose, John blinking at the sensation “—yer torso—” another peck, to the little pouch of his stomach this time “—yer thighs—” he lays a kiss on each of John’s perfectly rounded thighs “—yer legs—” he kisses down the lengths of John’s legs “—and to the rest of ya.”

“Yer perfect too, Paul. So perfect—” John chokes back a sob and begins to hide his face in his hands so Paul wouldn’t see the beginnings of tears in his eyes. 

“No. No, luv, no; don’t hide. Ye don’t need to hide, John,” Paul soothes, laying John’s hands to the sides before they could reach their targets. He cradles John’s head in between his hands and brushes away his tears with his thumbs, kissing the lids when they close. John lets out a shaky breath.

Then he laughs.

“What’s so funny?” Paul asks, a smile beginning to form on his face.

“Nothing. ‘S just tha’...”

“What?”

“I wasn’t expecting that. Ye never fail to surprise me, Macca. Ye always know how to put a smile on me face. To make me happy.”

“Must be magic, huh?” Paul jokes.

“Mmm, magic,” John hums. 

For a moment, all they do is look at each other with tenderness evident in their eyes. Many words go unspoken, but they know they’re talking to one another. It’s like a telepathy of sorts—the type two individuals achieve only through sharing a significant amount of love for one another.

But then, John tongue darts out to wet his lips, Paul’s eyes following the motion, and they’re back to kissing, tongues entwining in a sacred, passionate dance.

“I know ye want to take it slow—ah, shit,” John breathes when Paul sucks particularly hard on his collarbone. “But I think this is too slow for both of us, don’t ye agree?”

Paul hums. “I guess I can say I do, yeh.”

John smirks. “Ye know where they are.”

One more kiss before Paul takes their bottle of lube from their bedside drawer. There are a few condoms in there as well, but they only use those when necessary—sometimes, they just can’t help having a go before a social gathering.

Squirting just enough lube onto his palm, Paul coats his fingers in it and rubs circles against the rim of John’s hole to get the lube to warm up a bit before applying slight pressure and pressing one inside. They hadn’t done this earlier today, so John is rather tight now, but Paul knows the preparation won’t take long. They’re not in a rush, anyway; there’s nothing to worry about.

Not too long before then, one finger becomes two, and Paul scissors and curls his fingers with an expertise that comes only with a year of knowing the way John’s body ticks inside and out.

“Ah! Paul! N-need more—please—” John cries as Paul brushes over the rough nub of his prostate with the tips of his fingers. His back nearly arches off the bed, and his own fingers claw at the sheets.

“Ye’ll have more, I promise ye,” Paul hushes, adding a third finger. The wet sounds of his fingers moving in and out of John’s hole are loud in the room, and Paul can’t wait to make good on his promise to indulge in the fantasies John’s shared with him even before they retired for the night (or early morning, rather).

When John pushes back and fucks himself on Paul’s fingers more desperately than he had previously, small ‘ah, ah, ah,’s escaping his lips, that’s when Paul decides it’s time for that ‘more.’ He pulls his fingers out, and John’s eyes fly wide open in obvious concern. He protests the loss with a pathetic moan, and Paul shushes him with a deep kiss.

He slowly eases himself into John’s body, pausing in between languid strokes and beats of tongue to search John’s face for any signs of discomfort. John tenses a bit from beneath him, but not too much for Paul to think he’s in pain.

“Maybe I should’ve followed through with yer suggestion—having a plug in ya would’ve kept ye loose and open for me, don’t ya think?” Paul teases, a grin spreading wide on his face at the way John tugs at his hair vindictively.

“Maybe some—hah—other time, when—hah, _ shit! _ —I don’t have the constant reminder of why I’ve got a plug stuck in me arse,” John bites back, not skipping a beat.

“Aw, where would the fun be in that? I thought you liked doing things the harder way.”

“James—Paul—McCartney, was that—a fucking pun?

“Ye just made one yerself, luv. That makes you ineligible to protest.”

Their easy banter successfully drives John’s focus away from the slight discomfort he feels at the way Paul enters him, as proven when he feels a twinge of shock ripple through him when he finally feels Paul’s hips against his own.

Neither of them move, but they take advantage of the tender moment by simply feeling each other, running hands through hair and upon soft, smooth skin. John seeks a better angle between them, and when he finds one, he spurs Paul on with a quick tug to his hair, slightly longer than he usually grows it. The action elicits a sharp moan from Paul, and he growls and buries his face into John’s shoulder to bite on it.

Only after he’s left a bright mark on pale, freckled skin (and felt an animalistic satisfaction hearing John’s soft moans), Paul lifts his head and says, “I know what yer trying to do. I want to go a little rougher at it too, but... I think I’d prefer that we just let the moment unravel at its own pace. Just tonight, hmm?”

John shows him the tender smile that he has reserved only for him and whispers a short word of assent. Paul presses his kiss-swollen lips against John’s gently and lingers before thanking him softly.

The thighs at the sides of Paul’s waist tighten a fraction with each deep, long thrust, the rhythmic slaps of sweat-slick skin against skin growing louder along with the whimpers, whines, moans, and groans from both men as they both get further lost in the pleasure of their lovemaking. Despite that, however, John doesn’t forget to trade kisses with Paul; to press his lips against the inside of Paul’s wrists, and suck at his pulse points. And neither does Paul forget to once again claim John as his own, paint him with marks to show the world that this man belongs only to him, just as he belongs only to John.

“So tight, Johnny. So lovely, all wrapped around me, writhing cos ye can’t get enough. Fucking extraordinary,” Paul whispers, though it’s lost in the endless grunts and whispers that spill from him.

It’s uncertain how much time has passed since they began until the point where John asks for Paul’s permission to grasp at his cock, leaking precome profusely and practically aching to be touched after having been rubbing against Paul’s stomach. Time has completely faded into the background, but even that fact is forgotten to the two of them as Paul grants John’s request.

Wrapping his fingers around the shaft of his cock, John begins to pull and jerk, immensely relieved when Paul helps him, taking the opportunity to circle the head and flick at the slit, his blunt fingernail catching on to it pleasurably. 

“Paul... Paul, oh please...”

It doesn’t take long before John cries out, body straining as he comes, pulling Paul with him as his muscles tighten and milk Paul’s cock. The hot, wet feeling of Paul’s semen filling him only serves to intensify his climax, and he feels as if he’s been wiped out of existence by his release.

When they’ve stopped twitching and shuddering, they share a few more breathy kisses and nuzzle into each other’s warmth, reveling in their shared scent, mixed with the heady scent of sweat and sex.

“Let’s get ourselves cleaned up, yeh?” Paul murmurs, nibbling John’s earlobe and ruffling sweaty clumps of soft, voluminous hair.

John takes another deep breath and nods, Paul being able to feel his smile against his own chest.

They get into a warm shower together, cleansing each other, massaging flesh with deft hands, John’s on Paul’s and vice versa. The soap washes the sweat and come away, leaving them both clean and fragrant with the mild scent of lavender.

Both wearing only thin shirts and boxers, they change the sheets and decide to take care of the dirty set later when the sun’s already high in the sky. 

Going under the covers, they wrap themselves around one another, seeking to be as one as they can be. Of course, it isn’t accomplished without a few knocked limbs and awkward positions, but they take the challenge in stride, giggling like little children until they achieve their goal.

They lie there, indulging in their shared closeness, the immense intimacy of it all, until Paul speaks.

“I love ye, John,” he yawns. “Happy anniversary.”

John sighs happily and wraps himself around Paul a little tighter until he lets his limbs grow lax with fatigue. “I love ya too, Macca. Happy anniversary.” 


	2. Chapter 2, In Which the Author Commences Her Evil Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confessions, meetings, plans, and... a release of wound-up tensions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY FOR NOT UPDATING ANY SOONER. So, erm, L I F E happened, and I was thrown off my writing groove for some time, but thanks for those who've been such a great help since the very start, I was able to hop back up. I dedicate this chapter to all those who have helped me climb back up and get myself back up and running. Love you guys <3333
> 
> Also, please do heed the tags!!! Everything important is stated there. Thanks once again!

Both Paul and John groan unhappily when the alarm starts ringing. 

“Why th’bloody fuck didja leave the fuckin’ alarm set? It’s a fuckin’ Sunday,” John asks, trying to burrow his face into the pillow. There are some crease marks on his cheek because of the pillow’s zipper, making Paul smile radiantly at him, adoring how cute he can be. John doesn’t see it, however.

“The alarm’s not for ye, ya adorable loon,” Paul coos, kissing the join between John’s shoulder and neck affectionately. “‘S for me––I’ll be checkin’ the mail, and I thought to make sure I wake up. Ye can go back to sleep, luv; I won’t scream at ye this time.”

John’s eyes look even more squinty as his mouth twists into a half-hearted scowl, his head having lifted from the pillow, neck craned so he could look at Paul. Unfortunately, all he can see is a huge, blurry, Paul-shaped figure, but he’s quite used to his poor excuse of eyesight. It’s enough for him at least, and he forgets all about it when he feels Paul’s lips against his own. He shudders and melts into the kiss like a cat searching for its owner’s affectionate touch.

They start with chaste kisses—small pecks on mouths and cheeks, but they soon turn heated; tongues searching for their counterparts, caressing them as hands slide under shirts to feel expanses of skin they’ve claimed as theirs. John’s lips stray from Paul’s lips to kiss the lids of his eyes, which have fallen closed at some point during their session. They then wander into lower territories; the tops of arms to the knotted flesh of Paul’s belly button.

Paul, however, with great restraint, pushes John away from him with just enough force to make him stop his titillating ministrations. 

“John,” he rasps. “As much as I’d like to continue this, I intend to get things done today.” 

“We’ll be quick; ten minutes, then we’ll be done,” John hurries to say, trying to bargain. His hands are impatient; they’re already reaching for Paul without having heard an answer from him, and John feels a bit like an animal controlled by base instincts.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Paul chides, taking John’s hands and kissing the backs of them before setting them down to put their progress into a complete halt. “Every time you promise we’d stay in bed for ten minutes, we end up staying in the whole morning. Go back to sleep, John Winston Lennon, and I’ll take care of the mail.”

John harrumphs and plants his face into the pillow once again, releasing another huff of annoyance when Paul chuckles in unadulterated amusement. He feels Paul’s weight lift from the bed and hears as he walks to their shared dresser to grab what he predicts to be a pair of sweatpants and his favorite piece of clothing—a horrendously worn sky-blue hoodie with ‘Ma-ma-ma-Maccarena’ stitched elegantly across the chest area of the grotty thing. 

“I’ll be going down now, darling. Do ye want anything in particular? Some bread from the bakery? Pistachios?” 

John lifts his head to face Paul, and yep, he’s wearing that monstrosity of a hoodie with baggy sweatpants. That man has no sense of style most of the time, and the only reason John hasn’t given up completely on convincing Paul to improve his wardrobe is his desire to make people see just how charming Paul can be—inside and out. That man is a complete package, and John wants everyone to see that one gorgeous epitome of perfection is completely his and his alone. 

“I--” he croaks. He pauses and holds up a finger and clears his throat once before continuing. “I just want a warm slice of Mimi’s pie… the one from yesterday, remember?”

“Yeh. Although, I thought ye’d be the one to heat it up? Weren’t ye going to learn how to operate the oven?” Paul teases, looking at his own reflection in their full-body mirror as he fixes his hair.

“Paulie…”

Paul huffs a laugh. “All right, all right. I’ll do it. I’ll be going now, luv—I don’t think either George or Ringo will be able to answer the door this morning; they drank a shit-ton last night. Just wait for me.”

John smirks, remembering George and Ringo talking about Paul spoiling John. They really had no idea.

The door creaks as Paul opens it to exit the room, closing it again behind him.

As much as John would like to lie in bed all morning, the sluggish sensation of sleep has stopped tugging at his bones, and his phone’s message tone’s started pinging.

Wiping at the sleep-tears in his eyes, John sits up and takes a grab at his phone, which sits beside Paul’s on the bed stand. He’s a lucky man—not all people would be as considerate as Paul to be aware of their surroundings while making out with their boyfriends; Paul had apparently placed his glasses safely on the bed stand before John tugged him down to smatter his face with kisses.

Wearing his glasses, John slides the bridge up his nose and looks down at his phone’s screen. There are a few notifications—all of them text messages—and he reads them silently, yawning. 

**Dad #2 sent you a message. (6:09 am 10/10/19)**

Good morning, John. I hope you and Paul had an excellent time together yesterday. Brian sends a request for you and the other three to meet him at the Café de la Petite Fille at noon. He will be paying for your lunch; it seems he’s set up a new gig for you boys. As always, more information during the meeting, be there at least 5 minutes before meeting time, blah. Say hi to Paul, Ringo, and George for me—busy morning (despite it being a Sunday, yes, yes, I know) today, and tell them their dads will be waiting for them. Thank you.

**Aunt Mimi sent you a message. (6:37 am 10/10/19)**

Hello, John, good morning. I hope you’ve gotten up from that damned bed you and Paul share; it’s late!   
  
I won’t ask much about yesterday, but I’ll assume it was all well for you lads… however you’d define well, I suppose. All I request is that you send a photograph of you in that sweater I knitted for you as soon as you wear it—and I do wish you wear it as soon as you can! Heaven knows it could do you well.    
  


Talk with you sometime soon, darling. Love you.

**Stuart Little sent you a message. (6:56 am 10/10/19)**

Oi mate, I’m so fucking sorry for not being able to greet you (birthday & anniversary) and Paul (anniversary) yesterday—would’ve wanted Astrid and me to make a visit, but uni’s been a right bitch that I can’t stay put for even a minute

Anyroad, I’m gonna greet you (and Paul) now (even if he still hates my guts as much as he does Justin Bieber). Congrats and happy birthday! You fucking deserve this    
  


Say hi to Gregory and Ricky for me

  
  


John types in his phone’s 4-digit passcode and sends quick responses to each sender; just a few messages of acknowledgement they might not read anyway (except for Mimi—the woman’s always got her phone on her just in case John texts or calls; she springs up like a dog at the sight of a squirrel the moment the phone sounds off). 

Mimi’s shrill, reprimanding voice echoes in his ear, telling him to,  _ “Get your lazy arse right out of the damned bed!” _

John chuckles fondly, muttering a small protest as he pads his feet on the floor before standing. He stretches and walks over to the dresser, pulling out a pair of army green shorts. As he puts them on, he spies the dirty bed sheets he and Paul so carelessly threw to the floor last night then stuffs them into the white plastic hamper—the ultimate destination of all their laundry. To hell with segregation—they can do that later (more like  _ Paul  _ can do that later, but John’s never going to admit that). 

He exits the room and skips the kitchen without a glance to take the extra key to George and Ringo’s flat from a hook attached to their door. He then proceeds to the hallway, knocking on his bandmates’ door. He doubts they’d answer in the first place, but Paul would give him a light scolding later if he just barged into another person’s (more so  _ other people’s,  _ even if it were George and Ringo) house/flat/apartment/whatever-you’d-like-to-call-it. Strange, how John would willingly comply with Paul's requests when he himself would always be the first person to be called stubborn by everyone he knew, but the man always thought it was some kind of magic. He was especially chuffed to be able to say it was because of love, and he knew Paul was too.

_ Cheesy git,  _ John mentally tells himself, an inevident smile on his face as his knuckles hit against wood.

Nobody answers, as predicted, and John unlocks the door. The sight of Ringo in nothing but red briefs, splayed on the couch with drool running down the side of his mouth hits him like Regina George getting hit by a bus in “Mean Girls.” Ringo’s known to have the sweats when drunk off his ass, and John wouldn’t be surprised to find him stripping in the middle of the hallway when in an inebriated state. At least he made sure to close the curtains before ridding himself of clothing, the wanker. Otherwise their neighbors would’ve gotten a full taste of the meal.

Smirking maliciously, John walks over to the curtains and parts them, imitating a camp bugle’s wake-up call as sunlight streams into the room before you could call for Saint Peter.

“Ay-oh, lads and lassies! The sun’s up; we don’t photosynthesize, but we sure as hell need to get working! Come on, now, come on; we can’t lie on the couch forever!” John cheerily exclaims, walking over to Ringo, who groans as his eyes adjust to the sudden brightness.

John helps him sit up properly as he wipes the drool off his face, and he tries to ignore the pounding of his head, feeling as if he’s failed long before he even got the chance to start. He remains seated, back slouched, arms to his sides, and feet flat on the floor while John retrieves his yellow jumper and royal blue sweatpants from wherever they’ve ended up in his and George’s flat. His mouth is dry, and his face scrunches up in mild disgust when he finds that his breath smells stale. 

John returns from the dining area (where he’s found Ringo’s sweatpants) and hurries to Ringo to help him put on more clothes. As a friend of Ringo’s, it is natural for him to feel a sense of urgency when noticing he’s started shivering, and he rushes to bring the sweater down his friend’s torso. He’s only thankful that Ringo isn’t in the mood to bring up how he’s being a complete mother right now—Paul’s dominantly the mother figure of the group, but John doesn’t need to be bothered to take up that role when Paul’s not able to.

When Ringo’s fully clothed, John pats him carefully on the back once before telling him to sit at the dining table.

“John, ye don’t mind grabbin’ me a glass o’water d’ya?” Ringo asks, cringing at the hoarseness of his own voice. Nevertheless, he makes his way to the dining table and pulls out a chair to sit on it.

“No I don’t, Ritch. ‘Ve got ya.”

John walks over to the kitchen area, taking a glass from an overhead cupboard and fills it with water. He looks over to Ringo, who’s got his head buried in his folded arms on the table. Poor lad.

“How’s Geo?” John asks, hoping Ringo knows. George is not as able to hold his drink as Ringo is, and unfortunately he drank much,  _ much  _ more than Ringo did last night.

“Mos’ prob’ly doing better,” Ringo says, the words almost lost to a groan. John returns the jug and closes the fridge, placing the glass beside Ringo’s elbow.

“‘Ere,” he says. “I’ll go check on Geo. Ye’ll need to be active today, I’m afraid; Eppy’s set us a time for roll call.”

“Does the man even rest? It’s a Sunday…” Ringo gripes, rubbing at his face as he lifts his head. His eyes slowly focus, the three glasses in his peripheral vision melding into one. He takes it in his hand and lifts the mouth to his lips. He nods towards the bedroom door.

“Ya know where ‘e is. Not gonna be happy ‘bout the news, though. Let’s hope he isn’t lost in a storm cloud for the rest of the day,” he informs. John sighs his assent. George could either be completely predictable or a total wildcard, but that trait of his just makes him one of the most unpredictable individuals John’s ever come across. Playing for gigs in different places guarantees a wide and varied audience filled with unique people, but even their uniqueness becomes boring when that’s all you see. John’s never known (and has accepted the fact that he probably never will) why it’s always been different with his three best friends, but that’s the exciting part of it all.

If there was one thing certain though, it was that he was surprised to see George already awake and at the study desk he and Ringo share the use of during hell weeks and similar events. He’s got his head bent over a notebook (which John guesses is his journal), writing down something John presumes is probably private. 

“When didje get up?” 

“5,” George answers, not looking up. His voice is calm, as if he’s been expecting John to come into his and Ringo’s room without a knock.

“I’m not interrupting, am I?” John asks, the words sounding strange in his mouth. He’s gained the grace to ask such questions later on in his relationship with Paul; it’s definitely a welcome change to his  _ I-do-whatever-I-want-whenever-I-want  _ attitude, but even despite everything, he’s still not used to speaking those words.

George pauses. Then he shrugs.

“Depends, I guess.”

“On what?”

“Dunno.”

John closes the door behind him, but his hand freezes on the knob, uncomfortable in the position he’s placed in. He is an emotional man, he will admit that—but empathy is difficult to handle in large amounts, and he gets the gut feeling that George is stomaching intense emotions he won’t easily divulge.

“What’s going on? Ye’re usually cheerful in the morning,” he inquires. It isn’t rhetoric; George truly  _ is  _ usually cheerful in the morning. It’s rare that he’s in a stormy mood at the beginning of the day.

George huffs and puts down his ballpoint pen, closing the notebook. He brings it with him as he goes to his side of the room, placing it inside the large, lockable cabinet in his bedside table. John eyes his strange behavior with a slight squint, tucking his thumb into his fist as George takes the bronze key from atop the table and uses it to lock the cabinet before hiding it in his drawer. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Haz? Ye’re not going to confess to me or something like tha’, are ya?” John asks, forcing a nervous chuckle and hoping humor would somehow salvage the situation he’s trapped in.

“Where’s Ritch?” George asks, not blinking an eye.

“What about ‘im?” John asks, trying for false bravado as he sees nothing else could possibly save him. He reinforces his stance, trying to stand as tall as he can, but there’s one disadvantage to being just about the same height as the person intimidating you. He wonders how Ringo gets by, being the shortest of them four.

_ He knows how to handle these things more than you do, idiot,  _ John’s internal “Johnologue” tells him. 

George only looks him straight in the eye as he demands, “John.”

“Outside, dining table. Booze last night knocked him out real good,” John answers. “Speaking of last night, ye drank more than ‘im; why ain’t ya in a worse state? Ye’re not as good with alcohol as he is.”

“Took care of meself; what else d’ye think?”

Shoving off the familiar tingling sensation of irritation crawling to his hands, John heaves a deep sigh. “All right, ya grouch, tell me what’s goin’ on. Ye’re acting all peculiar, and I don’t like it.”

George’s mouth twists in a defiant scowl, and for a while John expects him to brush the topic off with an acerbic comment and force him to let it slide, leaving him to stew in annoyance and curiosity until he gives into those and commits an act he’ll regret entirely. 

George’s shoulders tremble as his hands clench into fists. Breaths rapid, teeth grit, and Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, he’s left helpless as the dam breaks, and tears well in his eyes. Caught off guard, John is rendered speechless. His arms reach for George, though they stop mid-way as he wonders whether what he’s doing is the correct thing to do.

_ Help, you fucking idiot; don’t just stand there like a stupid donkey,  _ John tells himself. He wishes Ringo were there right now; he’d know  _ exactly  _ what to do.

But, of course, he  _ isn’t  _ there right now, and by the little conversation he and George had before shit hit the fucking fan, it seems to John that even  _ Ringo  _ is part of the problem.

——————

John remembers the time he had still been in denial of his bisexuality, and somehow, stupidly, managed to project the negativity he was feeling then unto Brian, who generously offered to help manage them. He, Paul, George, and Ringo knew about Brian’s homosexuality—the man, since he’d gotten close to them, was dubbed by Ringo as “Father Beatle,” and on the same after-gig night that’d happened, he’d opened up to them about some personal matters as a “get-to-know” thing.

Upon hearing the words come from Brian’s mouth, John felt a curiosity respark in his bones like a phoenix rising from the ashes. He’s known something wasn’t clear about himself since he was 13, seeing the way he looked at Davy in Algebra class, favoring to pay attention to the way the boy chatted away with his seatmate (whose name John can’t remember) while Mr. Hammond lectured the class. Then, there’d been the time he’d attended prom, where he’d ran off with this lad to have a quick handjob in the school’s back-alley. He wasn’t in complete control of himself due to the strong alcohol the boy snuck in, and that had been his first time drinking, too. He knew Paul already by that time, and his confusion only grew worse as the strange feelings he’d been feeling intensified. After he’d figured himself out, John had always wanted to know since then how it was like to be out of the closet; to open about his feelings for men and not be afraid of his peers’ judgement because of his sexuality.

Which, unfortunately, led him to envy. 

It was a docile kind of envy; one that didn’t create a sense of rivalry but flared like a beacon in the night when it awoke. John was a man who mostly acted on his impulses, and that almost never bode well for him or the people associated with him. 

He, along with the three other Beatles, were in Brian’s office in central Liverpool. They’d been discussing some schedules for potential performances in various pubs and locations, and John may or may not have spaced out in the middle of it. He’d been looking at Brian for the duration of the entire meeting, watching George Martin, assistant manager and romantic partner to the well-respected “Mr. Epstein,” pause in his note-taking to place his hand over Brian’s—a small show of affection that served to make John’s blood boil with envy at the utter openness they revel in.

There was a loud buzzing in his ears, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the small request their manager made, “John, if you would be so kind to please retrieve the ledger from the top shelf?”

_ “Well, why don’t ye do it yerself, ya bloody queer?” _

Time seemed to have stopped right there and then that moment, as Ringo stared at him wide-eyed and slack-jawed while everyone else in the room paused in their activities, the air growing thick with tension as the words appeared to echo over and over in the small space. 

When the words sunk in, Brian stood and left the room without a word, Martin sparing John a reprimanding glare before following him out the door. 

A moment of high-strung tension left the four remaining people in the room staring at one another in awe. George stopped eating his favorite biscuit (which he’d brought a convenient packet of in his coat’s inner pocket) mid-chew, which was definitely  _ not  _ a good sign for John as it meant he was either in for a verbal berating, a physical slap to the head, or both. Paul, on the other hand, seemed to be processing the situation, not appearing to have believed that he’d heard what John had just said. He, George, and Ringo knew John’s acidic outbursts only existed to reinforce the numerous walls he’s built to guard himself throughout the years of his life, but they’d never thought he’d say such a thing to  _ Brian Epstein,  _ out of all people, who’d watched his every word and action ever since meeting them; who’d treated them like family despite not having known them so well personally.

It was just… too  _ surreal. _

_ “The fuck was tha’, John?”  _ George asked gravely, mouth still full with chewed biscuit.

_ “What was wha’?” _ John shrugged. Envy was an overpowering force that turned him into an indifferent monster, and if he was given the nickname ‘Great King Rat’ for that, then fuck them. He wasn’t obligated to make anyone like him (even though he longed for them to do just that), and he wasn’t going to do anything about it for as long as he could help it.

_ “Don’t act like a moron. Ye know wha’ I’m talkin’ about.” _

_ “Oh, is it that thing? I didn’t know.”  _ John pulls an overly cartoon-like look of innocence, placing the tip of his index finger against his bottom lip as he looks up at George’s menacing glare with a poor excuse for puppy eyes. He raises his voice and says in a saccharine tone,  _ “Mam says to swallow yer food before ye speak; isn’t it just right to observe proper manners?” _

_ “Fucking hell, ya piece of contaminated waste. ‘M not gonna pursue this argument against ye any further; I know how much of an obstinately stupid son of a shrunken pig.” _

It was then that George stood and left the room, slamming the door shut behind him, uncaring for anyone else in the building who may have heard what had transpired amongst them.

John turned to Ringo, scoffing at the look of absolute stoicism on his face. If he were in his natural state of mind (still quite kooky, but at least more sensible), he would’ve already been on his knees, over-dramatically begging for forgiveness to wipe that look off Ringo’s face, but as it was, he couldn’t care any less. 

_ “So, what’re ye gonna do, then? Drive me away just like ye did to the others?” _ Ringo asked, his eyes drilling a hole through John’s head. When John didn’t answer, he decided that his silence was enough, and said as he walked to the door,  _ “Well, then. I’ll do the job for ya.” _

John’s gaze remained stubbornly trained upon a filing cabinet as the door clicked shut. 

It was only him and Paul left.

_ “How could you say that to him? We’ll be extremely bloody lucky if he’s still willing to manage us after this,”  _ Paul said. John looked at him, his nonchalant facade slowly beginning to crumble. He is naturally a strong-willed person, but when everything and everyone else fades away, Paul will be the only person whose opinion still matters to him.

Not that he would’ve admitted it then, of course.

_ “That’s pretty cold of ya. I know tha’s not it. Come on, then. Spit it out,”  _ John commanded, leaning his weight on an elbow atop his crossed leg.

_ “He’s been nothing but kind to us, John! I can’t believe ye’d treat him like dirt after all that he’s done for us! For a new band, we’re faring well, and ye know—and don’t say that ya fucking don’t—that it’s mostly because of ‘im.” _

_ “I fuckin’ know tha’, Paul! Ye’re not telling me something, and I’m asking you to be honest with me!” _

_ “Why the fuck would I do that if ye can’t be honest to yerself?” _

_ “What’re ye prattlin’ on about?” _ John asked, the question almost qualifiable as a demand. His heart stopped in his chest. Did Paul know? What the fuck did Paul know?  _ How _ did Paul know?  _ Who the fuck  _ told him? 

And  _ when _ —

Paul waved him off, as expected of him to do. Paul isn’t one to confront or to face confrontation, but John is always there to chase after him; to pull where Paul pushes, in perfect harmony.

John turned in his seat, waiting for Paul to cast him a glance. Wait for the bite, then reel it in.

Paul was drawing nonsense shapes on Brian’s desk with his left hand as he tapped a rhythm with one of the many dud pens Brian’s kept in his office just for him. The cheap plastic made loud, clapping noises against the solid hardwood, and John recognized the song to be one of their crude drafts—the lyrics were still odd-sounding, and it seemed to him that they had no idea what they wanted to say, but the melody, beat, rhythm, and harmony were perfect as they were.

Guessing Paul would remain occupied until Brian and the others return ( _ If they return,  _ said a tiny voice in John’s head), John sighed. “Paul.”

The tap-clapping stopped. But Paul still wouldn’t look at him.

John knew Paul would see him from the corner of his eye, so he took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, knowing that might be the only way he could prove to Paul that his next words were sincere. If that no longer worked… He was well and truly fucked.

He looked for the right words to say, hoping his reptile brain would remain silent for once and allow his true self to appear—the remaining part of him that stayed humble and understanding, free from self-pity and fear. 

_ “I know I fucked up,” _ he began.

_ “That’s a start,”  _ Paul said, the tension in his shoulders relaxing a fraction.

_ “I said some mean awful things to Eppy; most likely offending most, if not all, people in the room. I’m not proud of it, and I didn’t mean to say that; you know that. Do ye, Paul? Know that?” _

_ “I wonder if ye mean what ye say half the time,”  _ Paul mumbled, and John’s lips twitched downwards in a grimace.  _ “But I know you didn’t. Not this time, at least,” _ he remedied, surer-sounding this time.

_ “I thought ye understood, John,” _ Paul said after a minute’s pause.

_ “I do!” _ John exclaimed, teeth grit. He hissed on an exhale. _ “I promised you I did back outside that church ye, yer brother, and yer father used to attend Mass at, and I didn’t lie to ya.” _

_ “Then what the fuck was that, John? What was that back there?” _ Paul demanded, voice cracking. His carefully held mask of stolidity began to crack, the ever-flowing river of passionate emotion about to break through the dam. 

_ “I don’t fucking know! ‘S just confusing, is all… I don’t see why ye’re reacting to it so badly.” _

Paul scoffed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as a tear slid down his cheek. He tried to hide it, drying his face as soon as he noticed it, but John was attentive enough to catch it before it was wiped away. 

_ “Five years, John, and ye still can’t see?  _ Can’t ya?”

John stared at Paul, dumb for a moment. 

Paul was ever secretive of his emotions; a flaw John shared in greater amounts. Growing up with Jim, his father who believed showing emotion was a weakness people of the male gender should not exhibit, it was easy for Paul to learn to hide what he felt; to sidestep questions that would require his honesty in that aspect. He’d also thought it would be the best for his brother, Michael, if he followed what his father asked of him—after all, it would ‘set an example for him,’ just as Jim put it. John tended to get frustrated with Paul’s answers, but as mentioned before, he’s always there to chase Paul when he tries to run away in fear for the image of dignity his father’s planted in him. Even just seeing him shed a single tear would push someone who knew him off-balance, but John (along with George, Ringo, Brian, and Martin) understood more of the situation than anyone else.

Paul would try to hide what he truly thinks with humor, unexpected bits of trivia, and part-truths, but John knows better. After all, it’s sometimes easier to tell the whole truth this way—he knows that too well.

_ “Oh.” _

_ “Fucking hell, John,” _ Paul said, voice strained. He raised a hand to his throat as if to ease a pain, and he attempted to hide a sniff as John stayed in place, unable to process the situation completely.

Paul just—he was—did he…? No, it can’t be.

_ “Ye’re... just like them, aren’t ya?” _ John asked slowly, grappling onto the words that escaped his mouth, unsure whether they would convey his guess the way he wanted them to; his entire vocabulary’s been reduced to a child’s, and that’s all because of a (not so) wild conjecture that’s still subject to validation.

_ “Just like who, John. If ye’re talkin’ about George and Ringo, well, we’re gonna have to ask them first, don’t we?” _ Paul replied, forcing out a chuckle.

_ Shit. Shit. I’m losing him. Aim for the fucking jugular, John, before it’s too late. _

_ “Please, Paul. I’m asking ya to tell me the truth, just right now. I won’t judge ye, if what I’m guessing is true. Please, Macca, don’t hide this from me. Don’t hide from me.” _

_ “Look, even if ye didn’t mean anything a few minutes ago, anyone who’d overheard ye won’t be comfortable being honest with ya. Brian… didje see the look on his face? He looked positively distraught, a-and George Em… he may have looked fierce, but I-I’m sure he’s hurt by the whole thing as well. Haz was fuming, and Ringo—” _

John almost stamped his foot against the carpeted floor.  _ “I’m asking about you, Paul. I admit what I did was shitty, and I fuckin’ apologize for tha’, all right? But ye need to be completely honest with me right now, because I can’t, so help me, I can’t continue to live in the dark, ye hear me?” _

Paul let out an incoherent noise of pain, and he buried his face in the crook of his elbow as his body collapsed forward onto the desk with a loud  _ thud.  _

_ Crap,  _ John almost thought aloud.  _ “Paul, ye all right? If I said something wrong, I didn’t mean—I mean, I don’t think I did, at least.” _

No reply. Or at least, nothing directed at him.

_ “Paul? Answer me, mate. Tell me what’s wrong? Please?” _

Nothing, still.

_ “What should I do? Should I call for Geo? Or Rings?” _

Panicked at the lack of response from Paul, John laid a firm hand on the latter’s shoulder and readied himself to shake Paul; what else could he have done?

He nearly jumped backward when he felt Paul’s free hand grip at his own, the strength of its grasp great enough to surprise anyone. John expected it to push his hand away from where it clasped Paul’s shoulder, but instead John found himself pulled into Paul’s space, Paul’s arms suddenly wrapped around his waist, his head dug into the softness of John’s clothed tummy. John, his nose settled upon Paul’s hair, could not help but breathe in the scent of Paul’s shampoo—a concoction of grapefruit and blueberry extracts. It nearly dizzied him, as he’s always made up petty excuses just to get this close to Paul; to touch Paul, and now he was getting more than he’s ever done in the past. He searched not for the scent of the shampoo or the vague scent of Paul’s perfume (damn, the man really loved the scent of fruits, huh? Just a small hint), but the scent that was uniquely  _ Paul _ . George has always said Paul smelled of ‘home,’ but John wanted to discover it himself for a reason he denied his knowledge of.

John couldn’t find in himself any intention to pull away; he may have denied it for the longest time, but he always longed to be this close to Paul. Ever since meeting him at the village fete all those years ago he’s known there was something else about that boy, and though he still hasn’t discovered exactly what it was, he still holds onto that belief that Paul was  _ different _ (presently, he continues to stick to that). It felt as if everything in the universe had been righted with just the embrace Paul’s engaged him in, and it was then he discovered that touching… Well, touching was good. Even as tears rolled down his face and into Paul’s hair, it was good. Really good. Perfect, maybe.

They remained that way until the rest returned to the room, the storm in both Paul’s and John’s hearts calming, their tears having come to a halt. They could talk about this again some other time, but then, they still had the present to face. It may have been difficult for Paul—and more so John—to look at Brian, Ringo and George Major and Minor in the eye after having a moment charged with much emotion, but if it’s true now that they could get through anything if they really wanted to, then it also was true back then.

_ “Vacuuming Paul’s scalp there, eh, John?” _ Ringo asked, an amused quirk to his brow. George Minor (A.K.A George “Modern-day Dracula” Harrison) elbowed him, smirking at Ringo’s comment even as his curious gaze remained fixated on John and Paul.

John felt blood rush to his cheeks, and he spied Brian raising his eyebrows in a silent question, Martin glancing between the two of them.

_ Him, then?  _ John almost heard Brian ask, and the flush in his cheeks only deepened as he blinked his assent. He caught Brian’s subtle nod and knew that even though he had not openly confessed nor apologized, he was thoroughly understood and accepted.

——————

When John is thrown back to the present, the sight of a tearful George stands before him in all its six-foot-two inches of heartbreaking glory. His chest tightens.

“C’mere,” John tells George gently.

George looks at John with an indecipherable question in his eyes, but he goes anyway, his breath hitching when John proceeds to wrap an arm around him, his chin resting on George’s shoulder as he tightens his hold. John inwardly curses at himself for not being as warm as he promised to be towards his friends; he’s always longed for physical affection, but he’s never been open with it with the people he searches it from.

George eventually returns the embrace, and John pats him soothingly on the back. “This okay with ya, Hazza?” 

“This… yeah. It’s. It’s fine with me. It’s good.”

They stand still for a time, the hand on George’s back continuing to rub soothing circles as the sound of George’s hitched breaths echo in the room, filling the space with their harshness. John’s concern only grows when he starts to hear a high-pitched noise invade the room.

George is  _ whimpering. George,  _ out of all people.

It’s then that John feels the wetness of George’s tears through the shoulder of his dampened shirt. What’s happened between George and Ringo, to elicit such extreme emotion? 

Anyone who knows George and Ringo would be certain of the fact that Ringo loved to tend to friends in need, and that George would always be his top priority. Though he’s treated like the youngest amongst them and the only Beatle without any siblings, Ringo feels the fraternal instinct to aid and protect John, Paul, and George. Contrary to popular belief, Ringo is versatile and knowledgeable in many fields. Cleaning? Done. Dealing with and treating people with hangovers? He’s gotcha. Need medical assistance? Not to worry, you’re in safe hands.

And he always knows what his friends want. It’s scary.

Ringo always, ALWAYS put his best effort into helping other people, even if it meant waking up at the crack of dawn, just hours after a night of cramming. Even if it meant having to sacrifice an entire afternoon of rest just to make sure someone’s emotional well-being was secured after a heated argument. Or even if it meant letting go of his pride to reassure someone he’d hurt or been hurt by.

So, what is this? What the  _ hell  _ is happening?

“George. Ye gotta tell me now, cos Ringo’s waitin’ for me outside: did something happen between you two?” John presses. He feels George stiffen in their embrace even further, breath catching in his throat.

“Are ye  _ mothering  _ me, John?” he asks. John sighs, frowning.

“I hate seeing ya this way. For ye to feel so bad that ye’d allow me to see ya cry… What’s happened?” John repeats. It’s a flaw they all share—hating to show any sign of vulnerability to anyone, even amongst themselves, despite the amount of trust they place in one another. Each of them have their own reasons why, may it be pride, familial expectations, or fear of abandonment, and they all were taking the long, difficult journey to change; they all knew hiding never made anything less real. John is eternally grateful to whatever deity or force is out there for giving him the chance to be with Paul, and Paul had confessed to him as well after a night of what they jokingly liked to call ‘sexual healing’ that he felt the same way. Paul was sort of the ‘black sheep’ in his family, being the only member to be non religious and openly homosexual (or at least, for now), and that remains to be a sour point for him. He loves his family nonetheless, but it still hurts him to feel a tad alienated at gatherings. He never dares talk about it to anyone but John, and John, despite feeling slightly disappointed at himself for feeling the way he does, is honored to be the person Paul trusts with feelings such as those. John likes to think that Paul helps him sort out the kinks (no pun intended) in his cogs just as Paul’s described him to do for Paul, and his heart warms whenever he thinks of how Paul chooses to stay with him despite all his flaws; how he chooses to love him with all that he is when most people choose to make him their bitterest enemy.

John has known George for a long time now, and so has Paul; Ringo, for a shorter period of time. However, it’s a popular opinion (and a fact!) that Ringo’s the closest to him out of all of George’s friends. All three of George’s bandmates know this, which saddens them to see that none of them know George as much as they actually want to. As aforementioned a number of paragraphs ago, George is an enigmatic figure, often unpredictable and impossible to read.

Ringo once shared with John that he felt George was always watching his actions and words. 

_ “Ye should give the man a fucking Oscar if you could; can hardly get a thing outta ‘im unless he wants ye to,”  _ Ringo told John, huffing. He was obviously in deep thought that time. When John enquired about his reasons for sharing that sentiment with him, Ringo merely shrugged a shoulder and said it wasn’t his place to tell what had exactly transpired the night before, and that all he could reveal is that they’d been drinking, George’s tongue becoming looser the more alcohol they consumed.

George may constantly seal himself off from them, but John, Paul, and Ringo all know that doesn’t mean he didn’t trust them. They understand that he’d just needed to do that so often during his childhood that it became second nature for him, and they continued to love and accept him despite that.

Presently, George mumbled something unintelligible into John’s shirt.

“Can’t understand ya, luv,” John whispers, as if he would spook George by speaking too loud. Knowing George, though? John really would.

“D’ye think Ringo would ever…” George says after turning his head to the side opposite John’s neck. He doesn’t dare go on, too terrified and distraught to continue.

John, reading the situation correctly, realizes that’s all George will let himself say. He’s got to turn on Holmes Mode if he wants the case to be solved; this Moriarty’s not going to go down easily.

Points to Remember:

  * Ringo does not offer to help George with the Much Expected Hangover even after having woken up, despite normally being the first person who’d do that on these occasions.



  * George uncharacteristically wakes early despite an entire evening of drinking and celebration, being in a nasty mood not caused by lack of proper rest.



  * George doesn’t shrug off John’s question of _are you okay_ like he normally does, implying there’s something affecting him more greatly than he can manage to keep to himself.



  * George then asks about _Ringo,_ which most likely means the problem involves Ringo. Ringo’s earlier behavior only supports this hypothesis.



  * George then _cries—_ a highly unusual action for him to do—which tells of his immense emotion. How long has this problem been going on?



  * Ringo and George, however, have seemed to be doing all right to the observer’s eye until this morning. George is a proficient actor when he wants to be, but Ringo is shit at acting, which means they truly have been on good terms until this morning. Last night, as well.



  * A question about Ringo is raised. It’s a question concerning the possibility of a certain action being performed. Action is unknown.



_ Think, John! Think! _

More Points to Think About:

  * Much about Ringo is known to all three of them; Ringo loves to talk about his personal life when they’re hanging out together, except for one particular aspect: his love life and past relationships.



  * Seeing that George and Ringo are flatmates, roommates even, they would have much more time to talk to one another. 



  * They’re more familiar with one another just as he and Paul are, so there shouldn’t be much for George not to know about Ringo.



  * What is known about Ringo’s love life is that he’s only had three girlfriends in the past; one being a childhood friend who lost contact with him ever since she moved to the United States per her mother’s request, the second being Maureen, who he’d ended things with three years ago, and the third being a brief fling Ringo got himself involved in because of desperation brought about by loneliness.



  * Ringo has never mentioned having any interest in the same sex before, but it’s never right to rule out the possibility just because it’s never been brought up prior to the present moment. 



  * George is known to identify as bisexual, just like him. Ringo’s sexuality remains unknown.



_ Ding!  _

Conclusion:

  * George is most likely asking if he would ever stand a chance to be regarded as someone in a romantic relationship with Ringo. 



“I don’t really know, Haz. ‘M not the one to answer that,” John states.

“I know,” George mumbles. “‘S just… I just wanted to know what you thought about it.”

“Promise me ye won’t hold it against me someday if I get it wrong.”

“I… I won’t.”

John pulls back and looks at George, who wipes at his teary eyes again with his wrist. His nose is red. 

“I honestly think it’s possible. I don’t know how possible it could be, but I have this small gut feeling it’s likely. I know Ringo’s never seemed to be comfortable talking about romance as long as it’s involved ‘im, but isn’t it worth a shot? At least ye’d have tried, and I reckon we both know Ringo wouldn’t allow the knowledge tha’ a friend of his harbors these feelings for’im to hurt his relationship with ‘em, eh?”

George breaks eye contact to look at the floor, clumped eyelashes more visible now that they cover his eyes with their dark curtain of fine hairs. He sniffles, his thick eyebrows bunching together slightly. “Swear?” he supplicates.

John gives him a close-lipped smile intended to cheer. “On me fuckin’ dick.”

George groans, but he looks as if he’s about to laugh anyway. “Of course, ye’d ruin the fucking moment with a comment such as  _ that. _ ” 

“But ya wouldn’t have it any other way, wouldja?” John teases.

“Ye’re like an extra limb tha’ just gets in the fucking way of everything, y’know tha’, Lennon? Fuck you.” George snorts.

“Extra limb, eh? Then, if I were Paul’s extra limb, what kinda limb would I be?”

Humming, George pretends to think long and hard about it.

“An extra dick, I think,” he then says.

John makes an impression of an over-enthusiastic shopkeeper. “Oh, interesting choice, my dear sir! Why then, may I ask? Is it because I’m glorious and deserve only the best attention?”

“Ah, not quite. Rather, it’s cos ye’re all intimidating, thick and hellishly hard at first, but then, when someone gets used to ya and learns how to help ye best, ye willingly begin to cooperate. The best of ye; the love flows out of ye in powerful bursts, then the softer side of ya prevails.”

“That’s nice, how very—wait. How the fuck do ye know that?”

“We’ve been ‘ere for far too long,” George says, clearly pretending not to hear anything as he rushes to the door. They’re lucky Ringo hasn’t come to check on them; it might’ve been a good 10-15 minutes since John entered the room to call for George. He most probably thinks George was far deep in the clutches of a hangover.

Yeah, that’s probably it. Not that John can bring himself to worry about that right now.

George turns the knob and exits the room just as John calls for him, crying out, “Oi! Ye fuckin’ tell me how the hell you came to know that!”

***

George, John, and Ringo are seated at the dining table, eating the first ‘official’ breakfast they’d had in quite a while when there’s a frantic knock at the door.

“John, luv? Are ye there? George? Ringo? Is John there with ye?” Paul pants, his knocks coming to a halt as he heaves for breath.

“Is something the matter?” George asks John, getting ready to rise from his seat to answer the door. Ringo, continuing to chew on the bland crackers George (generously) gave him to eat for breakfast, turns his body to face the door. His gaze drifts to John in concern, most likely wondering what’s gotten into Paul to be looking for John with such worry in his voice.

John looks at the spare key he’s got in his pocket and sees that it’s a key to George and Ringo’s flat; not theirs. 

“Open the door, Geo. ‘E’s likely worrying ‘bout me cos I never told ‘im I’d be going here,” he replies before placing the rim of his glass of water against his lips. He takes a long sip.

“Right, then,” George nods. Then he pauses. “Why  _ did  _ ya go here, then?”

“Gotta rally the troops for Sarge Eppy’s new mission. Captain Martin’s sent me a transmission earlier this morning.”

“Christ; that man never rests, does he?” George sighs, though there’s an amused quirk to the corners of his mouth.

George walks over to the door. There’s a loud click, then Paul is rushing into the flat, looking as if the apocalypse had just started and he was the last to know. He lets out a sigh of relief when he sees John staring at him in awe from his seat. John doesn’t stay stunned for long, however, apologizing softly as he embraces Paul. He presses a small kiss to Paul’s cheek; the latter burying his face into John’s shoulder and huffing deeply.

“No need to make us jealous, eh, lads?” Ringo comments, smiling goofily. “I see ye’re wearing tha’ horrid hoodie again, Paul... John, the job of the Fashion Police is not something to be ignored! Gimme yer badge, officer; it seems ye need to be suspended for yer inconference.” 

John lifts his eyes, squinting behind his glasses. “It’s  _ incompetence,  _ ya git,” he says, the reprimand the verbal equivalent of a slap to the head from behind. He looks about ready to grab at his hair and pull it harshly. “And forgive the man for now, will ya? He wasn’t going anywhere outside, anyway.”

“Cor, John!” Ringo retorts, still wearing a jokey look. He raises his hands. “‘S no’s if  _ I’m  _ the one constantly barkin’ about Paul’s sense of fashion.”

George snorts.

John shakes his head and pulls away from the embrace. He keeps Paul at arm’s length, gripping his shoulders gently as he looks at the green of Paul’s eyes, wishing to reassure him somehow. 

“Ye all right now, luv? I’m sorry for worryin’ ya; should’ve brought me phone and told ya or something,” he tells him. 

“It’s good now, yeh. Why did ye go ‘ere, though? Seemed to me that ye wanted to melt into the bed earlier, so I didn’t think ye’d be out and about so soon,” Paul points out. He’s a habitual explainer, anxious that his actions and/or words would somehow be misinterpreted by even the people closest to him. John’s tried to reassure him that was entirely unnecessary, but there  _ were _ things Paul did that truly required explaining. 

What, did you expect me to give you an example now? Just read on; something like that will happen sometime later, I guess. 

“Restless man as he is, Eppy’s set up a meeting for all of us. Gig schedules, Dad the Second’s told me. I bet there’s this gig that’s really special though, since Eppy’s gone so far as to arrange something on a  _ Sunday _ ,” John answered.

“Place and time?”

“I’ll tell ye, but first, ye need to settle down at the table and eat breakfast. Ye look like ye’ve just lived out an actual nightmare.”

Paul walks over to pull out a dining chair by its backrest and sits beside Ringo, who’s staring gloomily at his unfinished biscuit.

“Ye need some painkillers, Ritch?” Paul asks as John sets a bowl, a carton of milk, and an opened box of Raisin Bran down on the table in front of him. John then settles down beside George, who smirks at him upon spying the way John’s attention seems to be divided between him and Paul. John catches his knowing look and bats him off with a scowl, though the beet-red flush in his cheeks and ears reduces its effect. Luckily Paul’s too busy fixing himself a bowl of cereal to notice. 

_ God,  _ he does  _ not  _ need the mental image of George joining him and Paul in bed right now.

Right after his and Paul’s  _ anniversary,  _ even!

To be honest, though? It’s a concept he’s been open to for a while now. It’s not that he was getting bored with Paul; far from it, actually. He just found George to be such a wonderful person, and it was hard not to want him when he was simultaneously smart, talented, lovely, and  _ supremely  _ gorgeous. John never acted on his feelings, however, wary that they were conceived only of curiosity, and that by doing so would only hurt his relationships with his mates. Though Paul wouldn’t admit it, he  _ was  _ the jealous type; just like John. It’s just a trait of his that doesn’t rear its head often.

He doesn’t love Paul any less than he did when he first realized his feelings for the lad; no—it’s just. Maybe he… sees George in the same way, as well? Maybe Ringo, too? Just a bit?

Fuck.

John lets out a small sigh. As much as it might hurt, he’s got to be honest with Paul. They promised one another.

“So what’s Eppy planned for us today? Lovely Sunday for a meeting, innit?” George asks, dragging John away from the monologue that’s been going on in his head for minutes.

“According to Em, we’d be discussing some potential gigs Eppy’s got set up for us. Seems pretty big-time to me if ‘e’s decided to make the meeting mandatory; or at least, that’s what I think the status of this thing i—for Christ’s-fuckin’-sakes, Ringo! I know ye got a hell of a hangover right now, but seriously—would ye stop  _ groaning  _ like a kid being dragged by their mum to the dentist’s office?”

“Jo—o— _ ohn—n—n…”  _ Ringo moans. 

John mutters a  _ fucking hell  _ under his breath, but then he releases a sigh of defeat. “Geo, can ya get Ringo some of those pain medications ya keep in ‘ere? Poor lad’s positively  _ dying,  _ can’t ye see? And Paul, be ready to help Ringo out here, eh? Looks green to me,” he says, and George gives him a cursory glance but does as he requests, anyway. Paul eyes Ringo’s miserable-looking form as he continues to eat through his cereal, and a frown creases his face.

“Ya gotta eat a little more, Rings,” Paul encourages gently, laying a hand on Ringo’s shoulder. “Geo’s gettin’ ya some meds, but ye can’t drink them on an empty stomach. It ain’t safe, luv.”

John hears Ringo mumble something along the lines of  _ can’t eat  _ (insert incoherent noises of protest here)  _ crackers;  _ (more groaned-out words John can’t make out)  _ sick.  _ He then retches, but nothing comes out (thank JESUS).

“Toilet?” Paul offers, putting down his spoon. Ringo shakes his head.

“I don’t need to feed ye meself, do I?” Paul teases. There’s a quick pause before he talks again. “Ah! But we all know our dearest Johnny ‘ere’s  _ such  _ a jealous man who was born with a jealous mind, ain’t he?”

John chuckles. ”Sod off, he admonishes playfully, swatting at Paul’s wrist. Paul’s spoon clatters against the wall of the porcelain bowl, but he takes the small strike in good stride, grinning brightly. Ringo returns the smile, albeit weakly, and tries to eat a bit more to settle his stomach. 

“Good boy,” Paul coos, a devilish smirk on his lips as his gaze flicks between John and Ringo. John scowls to hide the strengthening of his blush, but that only spurs Paul to laugh in delight as Ringo squirms in his seat, looking slightly embarrassed.

_ What  _ the  _ fuck  _ is going on here?

George arrives at the table with a few tabs of painkillers. He gives Ringo a (slightly) awkward pat on the back before returning to his chair beside John.

Clearing his throat, John resumes speaking. “Right. So, er, we gotta meet our Double-oh Daddy-ohs at the  _ Café de la Petite Fille  _ at least 5 minutes before noon. Don’t think we can skip this one out, lads; Emmy’s got such a busy mornin’ that ‘e couldn’t say anythin’ more. He says hi to all of ya, by the way.”

“Poor man,” Ringo comments, his tone a tad disapproving. He loves Brian, but there are times he’d disagree with all the work he’d give Martin. The only relief he gets is the fact he knows that Brian is a responsible and sensible boss; giving only the work he knows is necessary to perform (which is, unfortunately, still a lot).

The other three turn to look at him, not expecting to hear him speak even a word. They aren’t being absurd—Ringo looks just on the verge of collapsing, and he’s shown that speaking is a highly difficult task for him to do at the moment. 

Paul unconsciously reaches for John’s hand. John notices this and meets Paul halfway, squeezing it to catch his attention. Paul looks up from his bowl, and John mouths,  _ Bedroom. Later. _

There’s a questioning quirk to Paul’s eyebrows.  _ Why?  _ he mouths back.

_ Need to talk to ya. Nothing big, though. _

Paul nods subtly, and John smiles warmly at him, patting his hand.

“So, Paul,” George prompts. “Everything good, so far? Aside from the whole panic earlier.”

Paul swallows his last mouthful of bran. “Uh… yeah. I bumped into Mr. Amos while gettin’ the mail.”

“Mr. Amos? From 2B? Old man, looks eerily similar to Bernie Sanders?” John asks, stupefied.

“Yeh.”

“Aren’t ‘e an’ ‘is wife ill?” George wonders, brows raised in shock. “Nobody’s seen either of ‘em in 3 days, even if Mr. Amos goes to check the cubby every morning and evening!”

“Yes…” Paul sighs. “And it seems they still are. Man’s been hackin’ his lungs out ever since he entered the lobby. He looked so faint, too. I was on edge the whole time I’d been with ‘im, thinking whether to call a medic or someone like tha’.”

“Yknow, for someone so paranoid of this virus that’s been spreadin’ ‘round, ye seem awfully nonchalant about the whole thing,” George says.

“I doubt they’re infected, anyway. It’s not likely. There’ve been cases ‘ere, yeh, but I don’t recall them being associated with any of the people who’ve been confirmed to have the virus,” Paul answers, tapping a rhythm on the table.

“Hm,” John hums.

There’s suddenly another retching noise.

“Ritch!” George cries, just as Ringo rushes to the bathroom, a hand over his mouth. The painkillers remain untouched, but the biscuit packet’s empty. George follows him and manages to get in before there’s a sound of throwing up and George murmuring, “Just let it out, Rings. Let it out.”

The door falls closed.

“We should… probably return to our flat, eh?” Paul suggests. “Ye wanted to talk to me ‘bout something, right?”

“Er, yeh. We should; yes, we should do tha’. Right.”

Paul smiles and rises from his chair, heading to the kitchen sink to wash his used spoon and bowl. He performs efficiently, finishing as soon as John reaches him. He puts the dishes in the drier and gestures to John to follow him as he goes to the front door, but not before reaching out to his boyfriend to hold his hand. Paul, however, seems to remember his earlier encounter with Mr. Amos, and he returns his hand to the side, meeting John’s curious gaze with a sheepish look on his face.

“‘M sorry… I just. I don’t want to risk it, luv,” he says.

“Hey, ‘s all right. I understand,” John replies, wishing he could do more to console Paul. They’ve been incredibly physical in affection with one another, it seems nigh impossible now to John to be able to express his love for Paul without the involvement of the physical factor. He wonders if Paul feels the same.

The embarrassment leaves Paul’s face, and a huge, sunny grin takes its place. “Let’s go, then?”

“EY, GEO! RITCH! TELL US WHAT NAMES YE WANT FOR THE KID WHEN WE MEET LATER, EH?” John booms, snickering as he waits for a response.

“PISS OFF, WANKER!” George yells back, then everything goes silent until there’s another splashing noise coming from the bathroom door. John bursts into full-blown laughter as Paul rolls his eyes fondly, opening the door.

When John and Paul re-enter their flat, Paul makes sure to pop a pill of vitamin supplement into his mouth and down some water along with it before following John into their bedroom.

John sits at the edge of the bed as he waits for Paul to arrive. He takes his glasses off and wipes at the foggy lenses, setting the object down. Rubbing his eyes, his chest expands as he takes a deep breath. 

The door clicks open, and John nearly jumps. The set of Paul’s brow raises in question.

John’s really fucked, isn’t he?

“What’s it that ye wanted to talk about, luv?” Paul asks.

Now, John isn’t the type to back out at the last minute, but seeing Paul stand  _ right there,  _ donned in a worn, nauseating sweater and a pair of baggy sweatpants, looking at him with an expression of open inquisition, so obviously curious about what’s on John’s mind just as he’s always been while waiting to ask about his previous, er,  _ relations  _ with one of their best mates  _ and  _ confess that maybe he’d been thinking of inviting said best mate  _ into their bed… _

That can’t make him help but think he’s in deep shit right now.

“Ah, er…”

Paul shuts the door behind him and sits near John on the bed. He reaches out and grabs a pillow, hugging it close to him and breathing the faint, masculine whiff of both his and John’s scents combined.

“We probably might need to grab a box of facial masks, I suppose; I don’t want ye to get sick in case I’ve contracted a cough or somethin’ like tha’. I must sound paranoid, though. Yeah, I think I sound paranoid. Do I sound paranoid?” Paul asks.

John’s stream of panicked thoughts come to a halt with an imagined  _ POP!, _ and John is fairly certain he can hear himself screaming (of course, he was just hearing things. He’s quite certain he’d wake up the whole building if he were truly, honest-to-Krishna screaming). Every fibre of his being feels as alive as a dog who’s just seen the door open, and all he can do is keep himself from  _ actually _ screaming while thank every deity in existence for  _ Paul-fucking-McCartney. _

“Er, no. Not paranoid at all, no,” John says, somehow managing to squeeze out the words like the final juices from a lemon. He tries to keep himself under a guise of serenity, but he’s never been a master of his emotions nor subtlety, so he makes a noise similar to a wheeze in his throat and falls backwards onto the bed, his back on the mattress and his feet dangling off the footboard.

Paul follows his lead (sans the half-somewhat-wheeze-half-unidentified-something noise) and brushes the fringe from John’s forehead, and John shivered, as if a million kisses had been placed there. He took Paul’s hand in his own and placed the back of it against his lips, pressing gentle kisses against the soft hairs there. Were it any normal day, they would’ve been doing the Unmentionable just because of that simple gesture but duty calls today, and there’s something that needs to be discussed.

“John, love…” Paul whispers. “What’s bothering you? Really?”

John stays silent; cradles Paul’s hand against his cheek. 

“It’s only me. It’s Paul.”

“How will you be able to look me in the eye after I ask, Macca? Ye’d think I’m some kind of… snoop, or a jealous boyfriend,” John says, wishing he could somehow find a way out of this conversation without having to spill everything in his mind. His fearful thoughts get fuzzier though as Paul’s thumb begins to caress his face ever-so slowly, and all his worries seem to er, pardon the pun, vanish in the haze.

  
“We all know ye’re both, darling,” Paul teases, trying for a smile, but when all he receives is a frown in response, that attempt fails as miserably as a fly’s attempt to escape a spider’s web. 

“But I love ye all the same, John,” Paul remedies quickly, his earnest gaze displaying so openly the hope that the truth he’d just spoken would reassure John. “All of us do.”

John closes his eyes and exhales. “I know,” he answers. “‘S just… I don’t know how to say this. I don’t know  _ how  _ to ask ya this, sweet. Ye’ll think ‘m weird, or ye might start hidin’ yerself from me, or—”

“—I promise I won’t,” Paul hurries to say before John could utter another word to push him further into the anxiety-filled spiral he’s falling into. “I might not understand fully, but that doesn’t mean I’ll hide meself from ye. I love ye, John, and I promised that I’d listen to ya the way ye’ve always listened to me. Do ye believe me, luv?”

“Aye, I do.”

The hand on John’s cheek moves up to John’s scalp to massage it, ruffling John’s hair. “Tell me, then. What’s going on in yer head?”

“So, err… were ye and George an item? Back then? Ever?”

Paul’s eyes widen a fraction, and the hand in John’s hair stops. “Why?”

“So, ya were.”

“Well, I… uhm. Why?”

“I’d been talkin’ with Geo earlier, and… he kinda… compared me to yer dick before, during, and after a blowie. There ain’t a way ‘round tha’, luv.”

“God, that man’s gob sure can go wide when he’s intent on doin’ something, can’t it?” Paul sighs.

“A—nd ye’ve just confirmed it,” John concludes. “I’m just curious. When, how, and why. Ye don’t need to tell me if ye don’t want to, all right? Just makin’ that clear.”

Paul looks to the left, seemingly trying to reminisce over the past. He bites his lip and stares at the window as John takes the hand that’s nestled itself in his unkempt locks and brings it close to his face, just massaging it and relieving what tension he could through the small gesture. He hates seeing it when Paul worries at his lip—the skin only breaks further, having been chapped in the first place due to the coolness of the air. John wishes he could retrieve the small tube of lip balm Paul’s got stored in one of his personal drawers.

They stay unmoving for a while before Paul breaks the ice and says, “We were so curious ‘bout everythin’.”

“Aye?” John says, hoping he could somehow convey his gratefulness to Paul for summing up all his courage to share this with him. He twines his fingers with Paul’s, and the soft smile he receives in return is enough for him to reflect it, only to a greater degree.

“Aye. Me and Geo… Ye know we went to the same school and all tha’. Best mates since we met on the bus. Anyway… ‘Twas some time when we grew curious about one another. We felt strange ‘bout it at first; we didn’t think it was possible for a bloke to love another bloke, y’know? And, well. We didn’t really know then what  _ we  _ were to each other. Friends, yeh, but was there actually somethin’ more to it?”

“What happened, then?” 

“Curiosity got the better of us, and we, erm,  _ tried it out,  _ y’know? I was 17, him 16… I know I knew ye by that time, and  _ god,  _ ye were a gorgeous, fiery beauty. Sex on legs, really. Don’t ye look at me like that; ye were, whether ye believe me or not.”

“Paulie…” John huffs, blushing deeply. 

“All right, all right… I’ll go back to the story. Anyway. So, it was one time he’d been acting all antsy and jumpy, and he’d asked me whether we could meet up at this park he loved visitin’ when things got pretty crazy at his. I hadn’t been able to talk to ‘im for some time cos he’d been really odd then, and he always seemed to vanish whenever I searched for him. So, ye could say I was surprised! Relieved, even.”

“I think I know that park. Was it the one a few streets from where the church was?”

“Yeah. That one, aye. He told me he’d be meetin’ me at 4 pm, and tha’ was a Saturday, so me da’ allowed me to go. Told me I was a grown man, and I should be able to set my own appointments. So I went.”

“He was late, wasn’t he?”

“Spot on. I’d been waitin’ on the bloody bench for at least 45 minutes before I saw ‘is monstrous quiff peekin’ through the gates. Even then, he was quite the thoughtful lad—’e brought me some Hazza Jaffas (for clarification, this is a special dish prepared by Louise based on the recipe of traditional British Jaffa Cakes). Loved those cakes. Then he sat down and apologized for his behavior at the time.”

“And his tardiness?” John asks, one corner of his lips lifting in humor.

Paul chuckles. “Yes, that too,” he says. “ _ Paul, d’ye reckon we really are jus’ goin’ through a phase?  _ George asked me. Wasn’t a casual question like the rest, really. Would’ve been if it were asked through a mouthful of food. No, though; he was quite serious with that one—he wasn’t lookin’ at me, and he looked as stiff as his quiff.”

“What’d ye answer?”

“ _ What d’ya mean?  _ I asked him, of course. I didn’t wanna assume anything, so I took extra caution and decided to have things clarified first.”

John shakes his head, smiling. “Shoulda expected tha’ from ya.”

Paul moves the pillow he grabbed earlier to the spot behind his back, deciding to shift closer (but not too close!) to John. The sun only moves higher in the sky, setting John’s hair aflame with its light.

“ _ Us likin’ blokes,  _ he answered me. I told him tha’ it was a possibility, but it doesn’t mean it’s not a part of ourselves, and we shouldn’t deny the fact that it possibly isn’t a phase either. He then asked me if there was anyone who caught me eye. I didn’t know at the time, either. I wouldn’t allow myself to jump to conclusions on things, so even if I knew I had something for him, I didn’t want to act on it. I just felt… responsible, y’know? Despite my… attraction? Is that a word I could use for it? Anyway. Despite my… attraction to him, he still felt like a younger brother to me. I’d never hurt him if I could help it.”

“And?” 

“I just told him the truth. There was no point in lying to him. I asked him his own question in return. He only looked at me funny, and that was when I was sure there was something he wasn’t telling me.  _ Geo,  _ I’d called for him, and he began to tremble.”

“And ye panicked.”

“Well, there wasn’t any other response to that either. I set me jaffa down, but I didn’t know why. I supposed back then that I did it to move to help ‘im, but I now realize that it may have actually been something else instead.”

“Oh my god.”

“He just went,  _ ah, fuck it,  _ and smashed his lips against mine, uncoordinated and clumsy as he tended to be. I returned the kiss without thinking. It was right there.  _ He  _ was right there, and I couldn’t help but just let myself wander into the unfamiliar territory we were nearing.”

“Sounds pretty much like our first kiss, but more sober.”

Paul shrugs, looking the very picture of feigned nonchalance. John’s noticed how a variety of expressions flitted through every crease of Paul’s face, and he’s not sure whether Paul is internally as calm as he tries his best to appear to be. “Dunno, luv. I think we were pretty much drunk that time as well. Drunk on hormones and all that, y’know.”

“Ah, yeah.”

A pregnant silence falls between them.

“But the two of ye… became a thing after that, then?” John asks, still wanting to hear more of Paul’s experiences.

“Yeah… We were both up to it, and we were sure it wasn’t just the hormones. It never really is though, isn’t it?” Paul replies, and John nods.

“If ye’re okay with me asking… How is he like?”

This time, it’s Paul’s turn to blush. John hides the smile that would have reached his lips were it not for his efforts—he loves seeing Paul’s rounded and supple cheeks flush red, may it be from embarrassment, heat, or lust, and this time brooks no exception.

“As a boyfriend? Or…?” Paul inquires, each world drawled out as if hesitant.

“Both, I suppose? In general, maybe.”

“He’s… wonderful, y’know?” Paul says, pursing his lips and refusing to look John in the eye, his head bowing. Why, though? If anything, it should be  _ John  _ who feels ashamed.  _ He’s  _ the one asking his boyfriend how his/their ex/best friend is/was in (and out of) bed. John knows he’s gotta get Paul to meet his gaze, otherwise he’s going to close himself completely and evade the question.

John brings a hand to the back of Paul’s jaw and slowly lifts his head, bringing the green of his eyes to his own eye-level. Paul’s heavy lids remain lowered.

“Now ye’re the nervous one,” John murmurs. Paul flicks his gaze to John’s soft, brown eyes, instantly shying away from them. “No, Paulie. Look at me.”

“John…”

“‘M not forcing ye, luv. I really would appreciate it if ye told me, though. I’m just curious about the whole affair, is all.”

Paul lips turn into a thin line, and he moves away from the touch.  _ Shit,  _ thinks John.  _ This is when he runs away and ends things between us. This is when he finally thinks I’m too much. This is when— _

“He was amazing. Treated me like I were somethin’ precious. He was rough when he wanted to be, or if I wanted ‘im to be, but he… He could treat me with respect even during me fragile moments. He’d nibble on me neck and tickle me with his breath, and when I’d cry out beneath him, he’d caress me face and whisper pet names we ‘ad for each other in me ear.” 

Paul shivers and closes his eyes, and John wonders how he feels. He must’ve really enjoyed everything he’d shared with George if the memories, emotions, and sensations refuse to leave him years after the relationship ended. He doesn’t want to interrupt Paul—he considers this as another step towards development in their relationship as boyfriends. John, at first, thought he’d known Paul deeply when they first started out but after a few months in, he’d realized how awfully  _ wrong  _ he was. Paul’s full trust was difficult to attain due to how closed off the man seemed to be to the world, and even now is he learning to open himself more.

“I remember how…  _ deep  _ and  _ gravelly  _ his voice used to sound like. ‘S as if I were feeling sandpaper, if I could only touch it. Seems unlikely for ‘im, dunnit? But really… The way ‘e’d whisper things into my ear;  _ Ooh, Paul, ease up for me, luv. So fuckin’ tight down there, aren’t ya? Savin’ yerself for me?  _ Things like… like tha’. And we were, erm, quite the experimental couple. He fucked me, and I fucked ‘im, though less often. I recall having worn laces for him on his 17th birthday; ended well for the both of us, I’d say.”

“Tryin’ ta bring me to full-mast ‘ere, Paul?” John teases, and Paul immediately shouts his bashful dissent. 

“Ye’re the one who wanted to find out in the first place!” Paul counters, spluttering. “Why did ye ask though? What made ye so curious all of a sudden?”

“‘S simple. Geo just compared me to yer dick, and I wanted to know how he got it so accurately.”

Paul blinks, obviously seeing past John’s lie. “No; there’s something more to it, isn’t there? One question, ye’d set aside till ye forget about it. But ye wouldn’t call for me to have a private chat if it were just for one thing. I was honest with ye, John… I’m hoping ye can be honest with me in return.”

John curls into himself for being so selfish to throw Paul in a state of utter discomfort and ask him to make himself bare for him, only to save himself from doing just the same. His hands ball into fists and he’s about to cast Paul a look signifying a silent plea for forgiveness, but he then feels Paul place a kiss on his forehead.  _ No need to ask, sweetheart,  _ John can hear Paul’s voice echo in his ear.

John sighs. “I… I don’t know how to say this, but…”

“Ye’re not worried about me havin’ been with Geo before, are ye?” Paul asks, trying to help John put his question into words.

“No, no. In fact, ‘m more worried about _ meself _ .”

“Anything wrong, luv?”

“Please don’t think tha’ I’m, in any way, unsatisfied with our relationship, or even ye, all right? ‘S just… ‘ve been thinkin’ about Haz lately. Well, for some time, in fact. Dunno about Ringo. I love ya, and I don’t want ye to ever doubt that, but there’s just somethin’ about them, y’know? They just  _ do s— _ ”

It’s then that Paul raises a hand, cutting John off abruptly. John breaks into a cold sweat, fearing that Paul has heard enough and will now officially call things quits.  _ I’m a horrible boyfriend,  _ John thinks to himself.  _ I shoulda kept things to meself and forgot about it; and now we’re over. We’re through, I’m gonna be alone again; he’s gonna abandon me just like me da’ and me mam; he’s gonna tell George and Ringo, and they’re gonna leave me too; they’re gonna think I’m a fuckin’ freak who can’t keep his dick in his pants for his own good; I’m ruined, I’m a pile of rotting sh— _

“It’s all right, John. I completely understand you,” Paul says.

“I’m—wha’?” John asks, the mean voice in his head instantly quieting.

Paul offers him a shy smile. “I really understand ya. Like, really. I never told ya, though, and that’s me fault.”

John could only hum in question, wondering if he’d actually conked himself into unconsciousness somehow and he’s dreaming everything up.

“I totally understand if ye’d like to, er…  _ try things out  _ with George and Ringo. I mean, I’m not putting an end to us; no, I’m not doing that. Definitely. But what I’m saying is that if ye’d like to invite them to  _ have some fun  _ with us, then I’m fine with it. I don’t love ye any less, and I know you feel the same way towards me. I wish I’d been a better boyfriend to ya; it’s completely natural to feel this way talking to me about tha’, but I wish ye didn’t have to be too ashamed to tell me till now. How long have ye been feeling that way?” Paul clarifies, a light blush coloring his plump cheeks.

John endeavors to find words to say, not expecting to be told that he wasn’t in the wrong. He ends up nearly (figuratively) popping a blood vessel in his Great And Epic Quest To Find The Words Of Power, but he eventually manages to get something out, although he hopes he says it properly and not go all, “JOHN NOT KNOW WHEN.”

Paul laughs, and John can conclude based on experience that the small sounds of delight Paul lets out are light-hearted and genuine. How could they be anything else?

“Paul… There ain’t anythin’ else I wanna ask you, but would ye allow me one final question?” 

“Anythin’, aye.”

“Are ye over it? Over everythin’? Over Geo?”

Paul looks down, reflecting.

“I don’t quite know meself, either,” Paul says.

John doesn’t give Paul a chance to worry about his answer and takes his hand, inviting him to stand from the bed. “Let’s get ready, yeh? Geo might need the help of a nursemaid or two ta get Ringo up an’ ready,” he adds, hoping to further drag Paul away from the conversation they just had. It’s a relief to get the weight of all  _ that  _ off his chest, but he knows he and Paul are better off thinking about it at a later time.

And by how brightly Paul smiles in response to his actions and words, John knows he thinks the same.

***

“Nous aurons une Soupe à l’Oignon, un Hachis Parmentier, un Coq au Vin, un Poulet Cordon Bleu, une Salade Lyonnaise, et un Boeuf Bourguignon, s’il vous plaît,” Brian says as their table’s assigned server scribbles down his order on a commonplace notepad.

“Oui, monsieur. Puis-je répéter l’ordre?” the server asks, glancing at Brian as he asks. 

“Oui, s’il vous plaît, merci.”

“Vous aurez une Soupe à l’Oignon, un Hachis Parmentier, un Coq au Vin, un Poulet Cordon Bleu, une Salade Lyonnaise, et un Boeuf Bourguignon. Ai-je raison?” The server glances over to John, Paul, Ringo, the George of Harrison, and the George of Martin, who can only smile politely and nod along, mostly unable to understand the conversation.

Brian smiles almost giddily. “Correct, monsieur,” he tells the server.

“Des boissons?” 

Brian turns to face the rest of the people at the table. “Anything you want to drink, lads?”

“I’d like an orange juice,” Ringo says, happy to finally hear a question he can understand.

“John? Paul? George?”

“I’d like a, uh, what do you call it?” Paul says, checking the menu handed to them as they entered the cafe. “Ah! I’d like a Citron Presse.”

“Just some sparkling water for me,” George answers. John grimaces in distaste.

“Ye like tha’ crap? Feels like a lemon-lime carbonated drink without the deliciousness of the lemon and lime,” he gripes. Paul nudges him. 

“Uh, right,” John adds. “Same as him,” he says, a thumb pointing at Paul’s direction. Brian nods.

“Right. Deux Citron Presse, un jus d'orange, un verre d'eau pétillante, et... chéri, tu veux quelque chose?” Brian asks, looking at Martin, who stares at him blankly. However, he catches himself quickly and flashes Brian a quick smile which seems to tell Brian right away that he did not understand the question.

Brian recollects himself. “Ah, yes! Sorry about that, love. Do you want anything to drink, is what I mean to ask.”

“Perhaps I’ll be going with a still glass of water for now,” Martin replies.

“Et deux plates,” Brian says. “C’est tout.”

“D’accord!” the server exclaims after jotting down the order. “Si je ne me trompe pas, vous aurez deux Citron Presse, un jus d'orange, un verre d'eau pétillante, et deux plates.”

“Tout bon.”

The server smiles brightly at Brian with a quick click of his pen. He stores it in his apron’s pocket along with his notepad as he continues engaging Brian in conversation.

“Vous êtes une famille?” the server asks.

“Assez. Les hommes plus jeunes forment un groupe, vous voyez. Je suis leur manager et l'homme à côté de moi est mon assistant. Il aide à la production de leur musique.”

“Ah, splendide! Quel est le nom qu’ils utilisent?”

“The Beatles.”

“Ah, oui, oui. Quels sont leurs noms?”

“Celui à l'extrême gauche est John. A côté de lui se trouvent Paul, puis George, puis Ringo. Celui à côté de moi, son nom est George aussi, mais son nom de famille est Martin, tandis que le George entre Paul et Ringo porte le nom de Harrison.”

“Merveilleux. Puis-je demander quelque chose?”

“N’importe quoi, mi ami.”

“George Martin… votre mari, non? Veuillez m’excuser si je me trompe.”

“Non non! Ne vous inquiète pas. Vous avez tout à fait raison.”

“Dieu merci. Je dois dire que vous formez un couple magnifique. Toutes nos félicitations. Je suis très content pour vous deux.”

Brian bows his head in thanks but makes sure to express his gratitude verbally for good measure.

The server claps his hands once. “Good!” he says, his English thickly accented, making his vowels sound clipped. “There is a button on your table; you see it?”

John raises a small button in acknowledgement, the server nodding. “Yes, that’s it. Please use it when you need to call me. You need water, or to make  _ l’ordre  _ _ supplémentaire _ , or if you want to tell me something, anything, you press it, oui?”

“Merci, Luc,” Brian answers.

The server flashes them a thumbs-up. “Je reviendrai à ma gare. Passez une bonne journée, messieurs.”

“Passez une bonne journée, Luc.”

John groans when Luc goes out of earshot.

“Eppy, we know ye prefer workin’ here when arrangin’ gig schedules and all tha’, but we don’t know a single thing ye tell the people ‘ere,” John says.

“It  _ is  _ a difficulty sometimes,” Paul restates, trying to be the efficient diplomat he is. “Though we can live with it. We trust ye; we’re sure ye know what to say.”

“Thank you, Paul,” Brian says, taking no offence from John’s earlier statement. John can trust Brian’s ability of perception to work whenever necessary, and he knows Brian can trust his frequent bluntness to guide the band, Martin, and even him forward on this journey to showcase their talent as aspiring musicians.

“What was Luc tellin’ ya?” Ringo asks. “I mean, I get that the first part was the orderin’, but after tha’s what ‘m askin’ about.”

  
“He was asking about you. I introduced you to him; simply gave names to your faces.”

Ringo nods. “All right, but there was something afterwards. I remember.”

“He asked about me and George; whether we were a couple or not.”

“Ah, I see.”

“I thought they’d know tha’ by now, though? Don’t ye frequent this place?” George inquires. Clad in a dark-brown leather jacket, he had to endure John’s teasing right before they’d left for the café.  _ Ye look like a scarecrow in leather!  _ John had joked before Ringo accidentally slammed the door against his nose, making George bark in full-blown laughter as an apologetic Ringo helped John to the bathroom to take care of any injuries that may have been formed by the impact.

“Yes, I do, but I usually speak only to Luc whenever I visit, and even he doesn’t know much about me personally. The serene atmosphere and excellent food are only pluses,” Brian says, covering his lap with a table napkin.

“Let’s get to things, then?” Martin invites, pulling out an extra chair to put his leather briefcase on the seat.

“Can’t we do this after eatin’? Can hardly think of anything right now; my stomach’s a fuckin’ lion,” George gripes.

“Don’t get us wrong, boys; we really didn’t want to schedule a meeting today. Weekends are supposed to be spent resting. However, we have a client who demands an immediate response to their inquiry,” Brian responds, releasing a quick gust of breath.

“Aye? Who’s the big-name figurehead?” John snorts.

The latches near the briefcase’s handle open with a click, and Martin pulls out a folder, flipping through plastic leaves. He hums as he searches for the information asked for, skimming through the business details and contracts of all their previous clients before coming to a halt.

“Ono. Yoko Ono. Owner of Hinode-Hinoiri Japanese Fusion Bar. Apparently, it’s an admirable establishment located in the heart of London. She called the office yesterday, asking whether you lads could participate in the International Music Festival event she’s arranged,” he says.

“I don’t really see why she’d ask us, out of all musicians she coulda picked to perform. Why would she want an old-timey group’a rockstar-wannabes?” John says bitterly, an eyebrow raised in suspicion as he crosses a leg atop the other underneath the table.

“Exactly because of that, John,” Brian replies. “I’ve seen the interior of her bar through photos provided to me by an agent, and it definitely screamed ‘60’s’. She adores your style, and she admires your efforts to recreate something the world thinks is completely outdated. She’s… quite an art person.”

“This is all thanks to ye, Eppy; Em. Weren’t it for ye, we’d still be going leather and tsunami quiffs; ain’t that right, Geo?” Paul adds, pinching George’s neck. George, in effect, yelps in shock and scowls at Paul, retaliating by pinching Paul’s sleeved forearm through the thick brown sweater covering it. “Oi!” 

“‘S there a date for it, then?” Ringo asks. He looks over at John, who still bears a slight pout on his lips. John hates performing for ‘them pretentious toss-arses,’ as he once put it after a particular gig where they’d all been subject to the business owner's sneers and jeers. While he’s an idealist at heart, he can’t help but become an utter cynic because of the people who hire them as a night’s performance. He’s seen the frowns his bandmates give him when they spot the storm clouds creeping up on him, but he knows they’re not frowns of pity. They understand, he knows, and he knows by experience but a single joke from Ringo, an empathetic, sarcastic remark from George, and a sunny embrace and soft kiss from Paul would instantly make his day or night better.

“She specified this Wednesday, if I recall correctly,” Martin answers. “Was that right, darling?”

“Excusez-moi, messieurs. Tes boissons sont l à,” Luc says, distributing their beverages according to their indicated orders.

“Merci,” Brian says. He turns to Martin. “Yes, it was this Wednesday she was asking for. I understand why she’s asking for an immediate answer.”

“John and I are completely free on that day. I’m not so sure with George and Ringo,” Paul says.

“We’re fine,” George huffs, smoothing out his hair. “I can probably just ask Ivan for some notes.”

“Rory’s up for helping me out,” Ringo says, pocketing his phone.

Brian smiles brightly. “That’s excellent, boys! George and I will be taking care of the train tickets and making clarifications that will be forwarded to you later. Don’t worry about anything, all right? We have you covered.  _ And  _ we will make sure nothing comes upon you—not a single harsh word, not a single condescending smirk—when we’re there.”

“Thanks, Eppy. Em,” Paul says.

“We’re proud of you. You’re making such great progress as a band already. Before you know it, you’ll be world-famous!” Martin laughs.

“It ain’t the fame, y’know?” Ringo says, his lips in a lopsided grin. “We’re just in for the music. ‘S just a bit of fun, really.”

“Ah, yes. My apologies if I came across as inconsiderate.”

“Don’t apologize, Emmy, ye were just tryin’ for a giggle,” John says, seeming a bit tired with his defeated stance and back bent in regretful acceptance. He refuses to look anyone in the eye, hazel eyes sad under the bright lighting.

Martin’s smile fades, and he and Brian exchange a rueful glance. He spots Paul whispering something in his ear before kissing his cheek, John melting under the tender touch of his lips, and he reminds himself to text Paul his and Brian’s gratitude later. “We know your concerns and unease regarding these sorts of gigs, and I promise you we’re doing our best to ensure you get the best experience as budding artists.”

“We don’t need _the best experience,_ ” John says, rubbing at the furrow of his brow. At least he hadn’t snapped, but the way everything just appears to be testing his patience now isn’t helping the situation, and that acidic, venomous part of him is waiting to strike like a snake hunting a prey in its sights. “All I want’s a crowd who don’t look at us like we’re miserable high-school rejects jus’ because of our workin’-class status, aight? Sod them, aye, but I just _hate_ how they think we’re crap just lookin’ at us. They never give us a chance to prove ‘em wrong.”

Brian sighs as Paul leans his head on John’s shoulder, pressing a soft kiss on the latter’s neck. 

“If I were to be honest with you, John, I’d have to say the same thing,” Brian says. “Criticism is vital to every artist’s growth, yes, but it must be constructive. I’ve seen the mocking stares cast your way, and I’ve heard the snide remarks they make while you dominate each stage you stand on, and I’ve wanted to punch them for every harsh snicker made at your expense. I could call you my children if you’d allow me, and I will not tolerate those who make biased opinions of you.”

“Have you  _ done  _ anything though? I know ye’re a good man and all, Eppy, but ye know it’s easy to defend a person when they’re there with ya.”

Paul frowns, but he doesn’t move away from John. He’s disappointed, yes, but not with John. Damned aristocratic farts, can’t they think of anything else to do than to disparage those they deem lesser than them? They wouldn’t be having this problem if they weren’t so prejudiced.

Martin picks up his briefcase from the floor and opens it, storing the folder inside. “Well, I can certainly testify for him,” he says. John expects to find indignance in his tone, which only shocks him when he finds absolutely none. “Brian is known for his sharp tongue and ability to express his dissension without coming off as rude, and he’s told off numerous pretentious arsehats for their partiality towards all of you. His diplomacy has saved us from gaining an unsavory reputation amongst their side of society—you know how those blokes can get.”

John hums, looking off into the distance as Paul squeezes his hand, gratified to hear of Brian’s efforts to oppose those who unjustly speak against them. Nonetheless, it’s easy to see that his mood’s been soured as it’s written all over his face in neon-yellow text. He can’t feel George’s and Ringo’s concerned gazes upon him, but Paul tries to reassure them that everything will be alright.

Luc eventually arrives with a few other servers carrying their orders. After they’ve placed the dishes on the table, Luc remains to ask them whether their order is correct.

“Oui,” Brian replies.

“Bien, bien. Bon appétit!” Luc says. Bowing once, he leaves them to eat.

“So,” Brian says. “Lunch?”

***

“Ahh, John…” Paul moans as John pushes him up against their bedroom door, his face buried into the side of Paul’s neck, teeth nipping the soft skin. Paul’s back slams against the wood, the only thing lessening the pain being his woolen sweater.

“Fuck… what’s gotten into ya, hm?” 

John growls, seemingly intent on leaving a mark on the spot he’s focusing on. Paul cards his fingers through John’s hair, messing the locks and pulling gently on them. John’s hips begin to grind against his own, and Paul can’t help but make a sound between a gasp and a groan as John practically  _ bites  _ at his neck.

“John, ye’ve got to tell me what’s going on with ya, luv,” Paul whispers, pushing his hips to meet John’s and rub their clothed erections together despite his uncertainty. 

Ears feeling as if they’ve been stuffed with cotton, John hardly hears Paul’s request and leads them to the bed, pushing Paul down. The latter lands on the mattress, which bounces under the force of the impact. John makes it so that Paul’s head is by the headboard and looms over him, crawling over him to kiss Paul roughly, his tongue immediately demanding Paul’s lips to open with two broad swipes against the plump gates. Paul opens his lips for John, the moan he grunts out lost in John’s mouth. He tries to call for John again, but John doesn’t seem willing to let up any time soon, and he needs to know why John’s acting all-so dominant now, when he normally is quite the opposite in regards to lovemaking.

Paul pulls John’s head backwards, instantly breaking the kiss, and he almost regrets it as he hears John’s frustrated yet regretful and pleading whine. 

“ _ Please, Macca… _ ” John manages to choke out, and Paul understands.

While John is more submissive than dominant, he  _ hates  _ feeling as if everything is out of his control. He’s more than happy to let someone he knows to be reliable to take the lead from time to time, but even so does he need those moments wherein he calls the shots. Paul’s been noticing a building tension within John when it comes to the people they’ve come to interact with over the course of their experience as a band. He’s been becoming increasingly agitated after each gig finishes, and now it seems he’ll need a great release now to get rid of his discomfort. 

And who is Paul to deny his boyfriend whatever he needs?

Paul pulls John down and gives him a hard kiss to the lips. “Do me, then. Go on,” he says.

John needs no more permission. He strips both of them naked as efficiently as a well-oiled machine, and they both sigh in relief when the painful pressure their jeans placed upon their cocks is released. John places a kiss on the tip of Paul’s cock, the former gasping at the wet sensation. John, in a fit of lust, buries his nose in the thick, black bush of Paul’s pubic hair and inhales deeply, groaning at the strong, musky scent.

“John… please, get on with it,” Paul pleads. 

John hurries to the bedside drawer where they store the  _ goods  _ (lube, condoms,  _ toys _ ; all the good stuff) and takes out a rope they use for bedplay, a bottle of lubricant, and a cock ring. Paul eyes John through lust-heavy lids, watching as his boyfriend makes his way to the side of the bed and takes his wrist, tying one to one bedpost, then the other to the one on the other side. He ends up shivering in anticipation, releasing a shaky sigh.

He hears the click of their bottle of lube, and he expects to feel slicked fingers prod at his hole. He spreads his legs farther to allow them easier access, but then he feels something being slipped onto his cock. He feels anticipation thrumming in his blood, knowing that he’s in for quite the experience.

Closing his eyes, he feels the ring slip lower down his shaft until it arrives at the base of his cock. He tries his best to focus on his breathing and waits once again for fingers to feel for his opening, only to be surprised to feel his hips being lifted, his cheeks being parted, and a tongue making slow, languorous swipes at the furled skin of his hole.

Wet sounds and harsh breathing fill the room, the sounds bouncing off the walls. Paul wishes he could see how they both look like right now, and he can feel that John feels the same way, judging by how his licking becomes more energetic and impatient in nature.

His breath catches when John’s tongue breaches him.

“John, fuck; ah, ah, that’s good, luv. Yes!” he gasps, struggling against the bonds that restrict his movement. John switches between short, sudden sucks and long, gratifying licks, but his patience eventually runs out, and he lets go of Paul’s hips to move back and slick his cock with the lube.

Fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, John moans as he finally eases himself inside Paul’s hot, tight heat, moving just so that Paul wouldn’t feel any pain yet not dragging it out and letting his hunger consume him. He allows Paul’s body to grow acclimated to the intrusion, keeping still for a moment as soon as his balls meet Paul’s flesh.

Paul’s about to beg John to move when John begins to thrust in and out slowly, opening him up with every push and pull. Breaths harsh, he tries to look John in the eye only to grow further unravelled to see John engulfed in sensation. And they’ve only just begun! He wonders how John would look when they get to the  _ main event.  _

“Fuck, Paul. So tight, baby. Open up, darling. So good,” John says, unable to speak in longer sentences. He picks up his pace by a fraction, but even that small change affects Paul immensely. Paul gasps and moans, eventually crying out as the head of John’s cock occasionally brushes against the rough nub of his prostate. 

“John; ye don’t need to hold back. You can let go; I can take it,” Paul grants, seeing the way John’s limbs in an effort to restrain himself. He notices John’s jaw; clenched almost enough tight enough to break teeth, he wishes he could bring a hand up to caress the lightly stubbled skin.

John’s nose almost bumps against Paul’s because of how quickly he lowers himself to kiss him. He peppers kisses not only all over Paul’s face, but also down Paul’s neck and collarbone, only to return to where he began to nip at Paul’s lips. He doesn’t forget what Paul said; in fact, it seems he’s taken note of it with how he’s now going aggressively at it, the rhythmic  _ slap-slap-slap  _ of his balls against Paul’s arse increasing in speed and volume. It drowns out the sound of Paul’s quiet gasps and whispered curses, but it can’t overpower the sound of their labored breathing and the smacking of their lips.

“Look how ye’re opening up for me,” John remarks, pleased by how smoothly he enters Paul. “Such a needy slut, aren’t ye? Always ready and beggin’ for me cock.”

Paul whines beneath him, turned on by the degrading words. Under any other situation, he’d be utterly outraged by the words, but right now that situation is  _ John,  _ and everyone knows how different he becomes witb the man. Though he knows none of them will ever  _ understand  _ how much.

“Bet ye’d do anythin’ just to get me cock in ya. Fucking whore, how many times do ye think about this in a day? Tell me.”

Paul refuses to answer, still fairly taken aback by such crude speech from John. He knows how loose John’s tongue can get when he doms, but it’s never been this free before, his words never having been so dirty and crass. 

John slaps one supple cheek when a few seconds of silence pass by. “Answer me. How many times  _ do  _ ye think about this? How many times do ye wish we were here, fuckin’ like two animals in heat?”

“John, please, I can’t…” Paul begs, shaking his head. 

John growls, giving Paul’s arse two more quick slaps that make a crisp sound that only goes straight to Paul’s cock. John’s sandpaper-like voice and utter power and air of dominance only seems to make him more hard and desperate. The utter rarity of the whole thing is such a turn-on that Paul feels as if he’s close to drowning in pleasure.  _ God,  _ can he even take any more?

“Ye fuckin’  _ can _ , and ye  _ will  _ tell me. Now. Answer me. How many times do ye wish ye had me cock up yer arse, pounding into ya like I had nothin’ better to do than make ya scream?”

“John—”

“ _ Answer me! _ ”

“Fuck!  _ All the time!”  _ Paul blurts out, unable to endure the delicious torture any longer. He lets the tears that have been gathering in his eyes to stream down the sides of his face, and John wipes them away with his thumb one after another.

“Who do you belong to? Whose cock do you beg for?”

Paul cries out as John prods his prostate directly. His cock continues to throb and drool a continuous stream of pre-cum, and the sight encourages John to continue thrusting at the furious pace he finds himself in. 

“Ah! You!  _ You, John!  _ Oh,  _ please!”  _ Paul cries, shivering at the intensity of every sensation he feels.

John chuckles darkly, the grin he flashes at Paul sharp and toothy. “That’s a good bitch,” he praises, licking a stripe behind Paul’s ear. “Ye’re the best bitch, aren’t ye? My needy  _ slut.” _

“John… please… Let me come. I need it.  _ Please,  _ I need it.”

John pauses his thrusting. “Hm, I dunno, Macca. Maybe I wanted ye to spend the whole night needin’ and wantin’ for me.” 

“No, no,  _ no,  _ John; please,  _ no.  _ I’ll do anythin’ for ya, I promise. Please don’t do this to me, I beg ye;  _ please!”  _

John pretends to give it some thought, though he has resumed in his thrusts. 

Then he says, “All right, then. But that’s only because ye asked so nicely.”

Paul groans, his cheeks only flashing a brighter red.

“I’ll allow ye to come, but on two conditions: I come first, and ye’ve got to suck me off. Got it?”

Paul is too out of it to do anything but nod enthusiastically. He whines when John pulls out, whining at the loss, but he can’t help but rush to wrap his lips around John’s shaft as soon as the ring is slipped off his cock and the ropes that bind him to the bedposts are untied. John moves further up the bed until his back leans against the headboard, and Paul moves along with him, too focused on the task at hand and too desperate for release. 

Paul feels John slip his hand into his hair, a complete mirror of what had happened when they’d first started out with this round of sex, and that only pushes him to put all his effort into pleasuring John the best he can. The man deserves it, and Paul is determined to give him everything he deserves.

Paul curls his tongue around the head of John’s cock, flicking the tip of his tongue against that of John’s dick. Moving down to lick at John’s balls, he revels in the musky scent that invades his senses before making his way back to John’s cock and taking him deep into his throat, nearly quick enough to make him gag.

“ _ Shit,  _ Paul. Ye look great with yer lips around me cock, baby. Ye could star in a fuckin’ porno with yer face and yer skills. We ought to video ourselves, don’t we? It’d be so fuckin’ hot.”

Paul adds humming to the equation, and soon John’s already frantic thrusts become erratic in nature due to his closeness to release. He just needs something to tip him off the edge; push him off the cliff he wishes he could let go of—

And then Paul gags and releases him with a loud  _ pop!,  _ looking up at him with glazed eyes, trails of drool dripping down the sides of his mouth, gasping as he tries to take in some breath. He calls out John’s name with his gravelly, used voice, all the while looking utterly  _ fucked-out,  _ worshipful, and  _ adoring  _ that John ends up releasing all over Paul’s face, strings of his come streaking Paul’s skin in gloppy, white lines.

The buzzing in John’s ears along with the eye-closing bliss prevents John from noticing anything for a while, but then he drifts back to the present moment from whatever paradise he’d found himself in a moment previously, he finds that Paul is pawing at his chest, murmuring his pleas for orgasm. John smiles at him and pats the spot beside him—an invitation for Paul to lay beside him and allow him to take care of everything for him.

Paul accepts the invitation, hurrying over to the spot John indicated he head to. After he settles down, John strokes a hand down his torso to his cock, jerking him off the way he knows Paul likes it as he licks at the skin he’d so brutally teased earlier on. He savors each hoarse cry, moan, gasp, and groan he wrings from Paul, taking them as a reward for his dedication and efforts.

“John, I’m close. I’m so close, luv. Don’t stop,” Paul babbles, lost in pleasure just as John was just a moment ago.

“Come on, Paul. Let go for me. Come, darling,” John coaxes, the tightness of his fist around Paul’s shaft just enough to set Paul off. He spends with a soundless scream, and John can only marvel at the sight of his ecstasy, still gaping, after all the time he’s spent loving Paul, at the way Paul’s . If he weren’t feeling so tired, he’d go for another round; as it is though, he  _ is  _ tired and has had his fill for the night, so. Not Happening Any Time Soon™.

He picks up one of their discarded clothes—the black turtleneck he’d opted to wear to the band meeting with Brian and Martin—and uses it to wipe the streaks of come and saliva on Paul’s face, chest, and torso. He knows neither of them have the energy for a quick shower, so he instead grabs two pairs of boxers from their dressers and puts one pair on, aiding Paul, who lies on the bed completely spent and boneless, put on the other pair. He returns the rope inside their bedside drawer along with the lube. As for the cock ring, he washes it in their bathroom sink, making sure to wash his hands for good measure. Only when he’s finished doing all that does he lie down beside Paul on their bed.

Paul, sensing John’s warmth, leans forward to kiss John chastely.

“Mmm,” John hums. “I love ye.”

Paul giggles jovially, and John takes his wrists to massage them and boost blood flow. “That was amazing, John. I loved every single part of it. I love  _ you,”  _ he adds importantly.

“Thank ye so much, Paul… I, well… Not many people would understand, ye know? Nobody understands me as well as ye do.”

“I’m glad ye hold me in such high esteem. I know the gigs have been sessions of hell for ye, but I never thought they’d make ya feel so…  _ trapped. _ ”

“That’s a feelin’ of mine I’d rather no-one know about, y’know?”

“Nobody’s gonna judge you for feelin’ tha’, luv. But in the case someone does, I won’t hesitate to give ‘em a kick to their arse. Me, Geo, Ringo, Em, and Eppy. Aight?”

John, struck dumb, can only nod and smile to show his understanding, and Paul accepts his response for what it is. Paul yawns and closes his eyes, getting ready to drift off.

Before he can do that, though, John calls out his name, pulling him back into the world of the wakeful. He hums in acknowledgement.

“Ye won’t leave me, will ye?” John asks, sounding as vulnerable as a sheep in a wolf’s den.

“No, I won’t,” Paul responds as firmly as he possibly can. “None of us will, John. Not me, not George, not Ringo, nor Brian and Em. Especially me. We love you too much to let you go.”

“Thank ye for reminding me, Paul… I really appreciate it.”

Paul spoons John, breathing in the scent of his hair. “Any time ye ask, sweetheart. Let’s sleep, all right? Nite; I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

“Nite. Love ye.”

“Love ye, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! That's the end of this chapter. It's not bad, I reckon? I hope you guys enjoyed reading this. Thank you so much, and you may contact me through my Tumblr at hungarianrhapsodyof1986. Or! You can contact me through Discord. My username is @Rhapsodia1964 #0769. 
> 
> If you have any questions, please feel free to leave a comment! Kudos and comments are much appreciated! <33333


	3. Chapter 3, In Which the Author Adds a Bit More Crisis and Drama to the Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aight, Paul;;;; I am so sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, guys, first of all, I apologize ONCE AGAIN FOR THE LONG WAIT. It's been hell on my end for the last couple of months, and I got back to writing only now. I am so sorry for making you guys wait, and I hope this chapter suffices somehow. It's a lot shorter than the others, but it's still quite eventful. Anyway guys....... I hope you enjoy reading, and stay well, aight? Difficult times, these are.

_October 13, 2019_

“Paul, ye need to be completely honest with me. Are ye _absolutely_ sure ye want to do tonight’s gig?” John asks with utmost seriousness. A blue face mask (which he’s taken to wearing since yesterday at Paul’s insistence) covers his nose and mouth, but the furrow in his brow belies the deep frown on his lips. 

  
Paul attempts to groan harshly, but his breath gets caught in his itchy throat and he ends up having another coughing fit. John rushes to his side and grasps his shoulders to keep Paul from bending forward at the bout’s intensity, which just shows why he’s asking the question for at least the sixth time since yesterday afternoon when Paul’s colds and coughs began, but he’s too concerned to bring himself to feel anything else.

  
“‘M fine,” Paul says after he’s reacquired the ability to breathe, but the clarity of his words are almost lost to the throatiness of his voice.

  
“Please, Macca. Ye gotta tell me. Are you really sure ye wanna do this, cos I can easily tell Eppy tha ye’re not feeli—”

  
Paul breaks away from John’s grasp, grimacing at the pain in his head and limbs that blooms at the sudden movement. His perfect brows are nearly bunched together in annoyance. He’s normally an immensely patient man—everyone who’s met him before knows this—but when he’s not feeling well, that patience appears to evaporate like a droplet of water in a desert.

  
“Fuckin’ hell, John. How many times—” Paul clears his throat for a few seconds before continuing, “—do I have to bloody tell ye tha’ we don’t need to cancel? I’ll manage now just as I’ve managed before. We’re here already, and it’d be rude to say we can’t perform at the last minute, innit? I’ll just have to take some damn painkillers for now.”

  
John sighs exasperatedly, putting his hands on his hips as he looks straight at Paul, both to challenge his resolve and watch closely for any signs that he’s lying about how long he claims his endurance will last. He can see a slight tremble to Paul’s arms and legs, the latter seemingly close to being unable to hold his weight for any longer, and although Paul’s got some weight to him, he isn’t a heavy person, per se. 

  
“I know that. But we are _not_ performing if ye’re not feeling well! Ye’ve had a bloody cold and a horrible cough since yesterday afternoon! How the bloody _fuck_ d’ye expect me to allow ye to perform like tha’?”

  
John means to show his concern; to show that he wouldn’t make a person experiencing any difficulty to ignore their own pain and strain themselves by performing (in front of a _crowd_ no less), but he realizes it may have come out the wrong way when Paul’s jaw drops open in plain affrontance before clicking shut, his face twisting into a prominent scowl that even the mask can’t hide.

  
“So I need _your_ permission to perform now, eh? Is tha’ it, John?” Paul asks accusingly, sniffing loudly and vigorously enough that John, if he isn’t currently taking any offence at Paul’s words, would fear that Paul’s nose would start bleeding. “Cos I think I’m qualified enough to do things on me own, _Dad_.”

  
“Ye _know_ tha’ isn’t what I meant to fucking say. Paul—” John approaches Paul with an outstretched hand, bringing it to feel the side of Paul’s neck. Although Paul shies away, still disappointed by the whole situation they’re in, John manages to feel the burning skin starkly against the back of his cool hand. He then places his other hand against Paul’s forehead, the skin there equally hot. John sighs.

  
“I don’t want to fight with ye about this. We’re past tha’,” John says, certain all his words ring true. He and Paul have long surpassed the point where they’d pursue pointless arguments that mislead them from where they want to go as a couple, and John is quite confident now that they shouldn’t be worrying they’d somehow be thrown back to square one.

  
Paul sighs, the dark circles under his eyes giving him only a more defeated look. He looks on the verge of collapsing, and John prepares for that possible scenario. “Me neither,” Paul whispers. “Can I just… rest? I feel so fucking tired right now; I’m not gonna lie.”

  
“Painkillers before ye go to bed?” John offers, to which Paul replies with a simple, “Ta,” before sitting on his designated single bed. John pours Paul a glass of tap water and takes a packet of ibuprofen from their luggage’s smallest pocket before handing those items over to Paul, who seems to barely be able to raise his hands to take them.

  
“Ye need help, luv?” John asks softly. 

  
“I’d appreciate it, yeh. I’m so fuckin’ sorry, John. I should’ve been more careful with me health; now we’re gonna bomb this fuckin’ gig, an’—”

  
John shushes Paul rubbing his back soothingly as he pops open the foil and puts the pill on Paul’s open palm, bringing it to his mouth. “C’mon luv, ye know that ain’t true. We aren’t gonna fail this one; trust me. Open and swallow.”

  
Paul follows John’s command and gulps down the water despite the pain he feels in his throat. Lying down, he sighs as John supports his neck and back, ensuring he doesn’t hurt himself by collapsing on the somewhat uncomfortable bedding. John wishes he could lay with Paul, just watch his lover as he rests to ensure nothing goes awry as he sleeps, but he knows Paul would appreciate it if he spent some time at George and Ringo’s room and talk until the time comes that Brian tells them to move. So for now, he removes Paul’s face mask and disposes of it in the trash bin.

  
“Thanks so much, Johnny. I… I’ll see ya later?” Paul asks, smiling faintly as he closes his eyes. 

  
John returns the smile, though he knows Paul won’t be able to see it behind his closed eyelids (and the mask John wears himself). “Ye will,” John says, and he stands by for a bit to watch as Paul’s body slackens, drifting into what John hopes to be a peaceful rest.

  
John heads into their hotel room’s bathroom and washes his hands in the sink, disposing of the face mask in the trash bin. Pocketing one of the keycards the hotel provided for him and Paul, he exits the room and closes the door as silently as he can as to not accidentally wake Paul up. He then walks down the carpeted hallway and knocks on George’s and Ringo’s room door. He can hear the faint sounds of a television program playing from within.

  
_“In a moment!”_ John hears Ringo exclaim, then there’s a small groan of complaint before the sound of bare feet padding becomes louder and louder. 

  
Surprisingly, it’s George who opens the door.

  
“Expectin’ Ringo, weren’t ye,” he deadpans, and John can hear Ringo snicker from where he sits with his back leaning against the footboard of his single bed before he’s allowed inside with a fond eye roll. _Lad must’ve lost a bleedin’ coin toss or somethin’, John thinks as he enters the room._

  
“Oi, Rings, yer turn to move yer lazy arse ‘round the room. Fetch us some bevvies from the mini-fridge wouldja?” George says, walking over to Ringo until he’s blocking the telly from the latter’s sight. Ringo pouts like a child who’s been stolen a lolly from.

  
“We ‘ad a deal, mate!” he exclaims in complaint.

  
“I promised ye one favor!” 

  
“Come on, luv, just one more? Please? With all the cherries in the world on top of a big-arse tub of vegetarian sundae?” 

  
George moans hoarsely, melodramatically as you like. “Ah, fuckin’ hell! Alright, ya spoiled little—”

Ringo tosses himself forward and hugs George’s legs. Puckering his lips comically, he thanks the sharp-toothed guitarist profusely before George stomps away in a huff.

“Whassat about?” John asks, tossing his head in the direction George went.

“We made a bet. We were s’posed to tell our raunchiest secrets and whoever showed the slightest reaction first has got to do what the other asks. Just one request, o’course. Poor lad’s scarred now,” Ringo laughs. John prompts him for details with a raise of bushy eyebrows. 

“So, ‘e told me he’d once played the uke for a fee at a kid’s birthday party and caught the eye of the—magician, was it?—anyway, they’d ‘ad a secret rendezvous in the back alley long before the man’s performance and he played the damned uke while the bloke was givin’ ‘im a blowjob. ‘Didn’t bat an eyelash,’ he told me. ‘Impressive,’ was all I said, and he was literally a guppy at that point. Thought I’d gone mad or something; well, ye’d be able to guess what happened next.”

“What did ye tell him, then?”

“Okay, so my story goes like this: remember when the four of us went out with Rory, Stu, Klaus, and the lads? Err, the one where ye caught me tryin’ to chat up a loo.”

_Oh, bloody hell, where is he going with this?_

“Aye? I remember Ivan and Rory draggin’ ye out of the club as if they were the bouncers themselves. Like a lovelorn character in a Shakespearean tragedy, ye were, spewin’ out mindless platitudes and pledgin’ yer love to who-knows.”

“That was a little while back before I’d sought out someone to warm me bed for at least a night, and well, what had happened then was I’s just mindin’ me business. Normal clubgoer stuff. But then there was this person who caught me eye. Thought they were a bird with short hair at first; I couldn’t see proper at tha’ point. Too pissed. I approached them and we chatted a bit. Voice was sort of tinny but not unpleasant. Strong Liverpool accent. I reckon they were pissed outta their mind as well, but they were still quick and witty as one could possibly get.”

“Ye sure tha’ wasn’t me?” John teases, winking. Ringo nudges him roughly on the shoulder, snorting.

“Oh, come off it! If it were you, then somehow Paul would’a known and I'd 've gotten into trouble. Plus, ye’d most likely have been dragged away before that could’ve happened. Or—”

“Alright, alright, I get the point. Anyroad, what happened next?”

“Ah, yes, so, err… Right! Um, I think they invited me to dance, or I invited them; I don’t recall. So we did, and it got pretty dirty quickly. The music went to a slow beat, and they started to grind against me. It was aight at first until they turned to face me. T’was too dark to see anything, so I can’t provide details, sorry—and what made me gasp was a boner at what felt like full-mast pokin’ me as if I were they were holdin’ the tail during a pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey game or somethin’.” 

John froze, heat draining from his body. He dearly hoped George won’t be able to hear any of this again. If this is enough to make him lose a bet like the one he’d made with Ringo, then hearing it again may as well make things worse for him. Not mentioning the fact he’s got a nagging suspicion about the situation, and it feels not the slightest bit pleasant.

Ringo continues, unfazed. He does not seem to have noticed anything strange from John, not even a small change in the air between them. Is he always this oblivious? It feels so palpable to John that he feels like choking. But then again, he _is_ the one mainly feeling the whole thing. 

But if he is, then George’s just really shit out of luck right now.

“The bloke froze and ran away when that happened. Was kind of sad, really. I didn’t mind. He must have been flustered ‘cause he thought I was gonna do somethin’ against him. I understand, though. I would have felt the same were I him.”

John lets out a subtle sigh of relief.

“But, well, Geo’s ears flushed so hard I thought the color would smear. Too bad I never really got to ask for braggin’ rights. Though, I wouldn’t really know what to do if he, by some unlikely misfortune, had won.”

The clinking of wine glasses catches their attention. “I certainly would never let ye forget abou’ it, but that’s precisely what ye meant, wasn’t it?” George says, an eyebrow raised like a tensioned string of a bow, meant to intimidate—warn Ringo, maybe. 

It works. 

“How’s the wine, ye reckon?” he asks, shifting the topic of conversation less suavely than he probably wanted. 

George mock-shivers. “Even the fuckin’ bottle is posh, if tha’s supposed to mean anything. One probably costs more than all of the bottles John’s probably nicked from Mimi’s pantry since he started drinkin’.” 

John walks over to him and flicks him playfully on the nose. “Joke’s on you, Mimi never kept any since I turned 17. Started prohibiting me ‘cos she thought I shouldn’t ‘get hooked to that nasty stuff.’”

George bursts into wild laughter. “Ah, John. Next time ye visit ‘er, remember these words: kitchen, top cabinets, second-most column to the right.”

John’s grin falls off his face like dead leaves from a withering tree. “Wait, what?”

Ringo cuts off the conversation by patting John sympathetically on the back, although there’s a faint echo of a cheeky smile playing at his lips.

Although John wants to savor this peaceful pre-gig silence with George and Ringo, he finds (though it wasn’t any secret to him prior) that he would be unable to actually bask in it without Paul around. Knowing that Paul was actually lying ill in bed while he, George, and Ringo were about to indulge in something they all had the rights to share is enough to make John sick in the stomach.

He must be a raging volcano of uneasiness if he made George and Ringo rush to his side in an instant, the bottle of wine lying forgotten on the pristine, white bedsheets. 

“He’ll be right as rain soon, ye’ll see,” Ringo soothes, rubbing a hand up and down John’s arm in an unceasing and titillating repetition, like the waves that ebb and flow in a sandy beach during low tide. 

“We know ye’re concerned about ‘im,” George adds. “But he needs his rest, too. Ye know our Paul more than anyone else. He’d work ‘imself to death if he felt he needed to. And he feels that a lot.”

“Let him sleep, hm?” Ringo pleads.

John sighs, still a bit antsy. “Alright, alri—”

George Michael’s _Careless Whisper_ plays, John and George looking around for the source of the sound. 

Ringo lifts a finger. “A moment,” he says.

He scrounges through the messed blankets in search of his phone, which continues to play the famously sultry saxophone solo. 

“Peculiar choice for a ringtone, eh, Rings?” John snarks as George smirks like an immature schoolboy.

They both hear Ringo mutter _fucking ‘ell, Rory_ under his breath before he turns out triumphant and answers the call.

“Good afternoon, Richard Starkey speaking,” Ringo beams. “Oh, Mrs. Gladstone? What’s hap—what? ...Yes, I know him. ...That’s right. ...Okay, ‘ang on.”

_“‘Ello? Mr. Lennon?”_ A warm contralto greets John from the other end of the line.

“Aye?” John asks, tone equally grave. The landlady, Mrs. Sarah James Gladstone, is a usually jovial woman who is not easy to faze. Hearing her sound so serious and fraught with nerves is always a negative omen, and the fact that she’d bothered to contact Ringo instead of waiting for them to return to the flat just to speak to them speaks more than words could express.

_“Ye’re flatmates with a Mr. James Paul McCartney, am I right?” she asks._

“Aye?” 

_“Has he been experiencing any coughs, colds, fevers? Anything?”_

_“Aye?”_ John presses, waiting for the news. Because he knows there is. Call him a pessimist, but he’s been feeling something was extremely wrong with Paul ever since he came from the lobby to gather their mail. Instinct, maybe, but setting that aside, there should now be a more urgent issue at hand.

_“I’m so sorry, Sir, but there is a high chance that he is infected with the novel coronavirus. Emergency medical staff arrived here a couple of hours after ye left due to an accident with Mr. Amos, and after a quick swab test he’s been found to be infected with, yes, the virus. We performed contact tracing soon after and found Mr. McCartney was in close contact with him during an infectious period. Did ye have any contact with him recently? Or at least, when symptoms started to show?”_

“Err… None. He became averse to anythin’ of the sort after meetin’ Mr. Amos that day. Decided to play it safe.”

_“Thank heavens for that man. Very well. Nobody else had been near Mr. Amos since then, and I am assuming what ye said applies to everyone else, considering his carefulness. I recommend ye bring him to a doctor before the symptoms worsen.”_

Shit, there’s that too. If Paul really _is_ sick with the new virus, then it would be ideal to bring him to the hospital. Any sane person would bring him to the damned hospital no matter the cost. But if there was one thing that John would never forget, it was Paul’s trauma with hospitals. The man absolutely _abhorred_ being in them. This was always to John’s puzzlement, as it wasn’t him who spent most of his childhood in such an establishment, but Ringo. Soon, however, during a confession spurred on by liquid courage, Paul had finally let the truth out.

_“Was there when me mam had to get ‘er treatments,”_ Paul said then, voice croaky and words slightly slurred. _“I’d accompany me every time ‘cos me da’ had t’take care o’ Mike an’ I was old enough, I guess… I hated how she looked after every session. She was already thin, an’ she couldn’t even bear to eat a single meal. Her eyes were hollow, her lips were chapped… didn’t know what to do or how I could help ‘er. And if that was bad, imagine how it was like to hold her and—and—and watch her take her last breaths on a damned hospital bed!”_

Paul had then dissolved into tears, and no more words were said later that night. The silence that came after, however, was more meaningful than the thousands of words that could have ever been said.

_“John?”_

Regaining his senses, John responds to Mrs. Gladstone, promising he would do the best he can to address the situation. The call ends with a beep, and Ringo rushes to take his phone and change the ringtone before anyone else could call.

“Call Eppy and Em. We… need to talk about something,” John says, heart racing faster than a racecar competing in a Formula 1 Grand Prix.

“What’s up?” George asks, brows furrowing in concern upon observing John’s stiff form.

Voice choked, John tries to maintain his bravado despite being on the edge of tears. “It’s Paul,” he says. “He’s… he’s got it.”

  
***

  
“Calm down, John. Nobody said he isn’t ever going to get well,” Ringo soothes. “We’ll figure this out, yeah? He’ll get well.”

Ringo frowns when John shies away, unreceptive to his words of comfort. He hesitates, unsure whether he should press forward or not, but he understands when George pulls him away from John. With Brian’s and Martin’s voices already filling the room, a seemingly endless rush of words streaming from their mouths as they try to assuage an angry bar owner, another voice would most likely just add to the commotion in John’s head.

“Ma’am, it would be absolutely unreasonable for us to perform for your customers tonight. We have explained to you prior that we would cancel should the situation necessitate such a drastic action, and I’m afraid that is exactly what needs to be done now,” Brian states matter-of-factly. None of the four in the hotel suite can hear the angry response from the opposite end, but they can already guess what their client is saying.

Brian’s brow furrows. He rubs at the tiny crease that has formed in the middle, his hair slightly disheveled from the duress he is under. “Yes, I understand that we had an agreement, but it is important to remember that the agreement goes _both ways,_ Ma’am. You had your conditions, and we had our own. One of our members is down with an illness, and he cannot risk his health for a performance.”

“We cannot just _replace him,_ Ma’am. He is a vital part of the band, and the Beatles cannot be the Beatles without him. Same goes for the rest of the members, and they are expressing their utmost reluctance to perform without him,” Brian defends, as indignant as the others upon hearing the bar owner’s suggestion.

“They are not associated by work alone, Ms. Ono. They are close friends, and as close friends, they wish to ensure their friend’s safety before anything else. I may be their manager and so is Mr. Martin, but both of us empathize with the other three members of the band.”

John’s head perks up, calling for Brian with a voice so gravelly it catches the attention of everyone else in the room. He cannot stand having to discuss something so simple for longer than necessary; they should be planning how to return to their flat safely and take care of Paul, for goodness’ sake! 

“Hand me the phone, Eppy,” he says, tone brooking no room for argument.

Seeing the resolution in John’s glassy eyes, Brian willingly obeys.

“Listen here, Ma’am. This is the frontman of the band speaking, A.K.A the ill member’s boyfriend. We are _not_ performing for anyone if it means compromising anyone’s health. As it seems ye can _not_ accept the fact that we do not want to harm nor displease any of your clients because of a subpar performance or a bleedin’ disease, I will make the decision for ya and say we are _not_ performing tonight. We are sorry, but we cannot. All our members are irreplaceable, and there’s nothing to be done about it. Sue us if ye want, but I wouldn’t know what for, really. Nothin' more. Ta.”

He hangs up.

Looking between Brian, Martin, and John, George remarks, “I don’t really know if ye just saved us or screwed us.”

“Sod tha’, Geo,” John sighs, shaking his head. “At this point, all I care about is finding the quickest way home and makin’ sure Paul is taken care of properly.” 

“How’re we gonna do tha’, though? It’ll be a bit difficult with Paul’s feelings towards hospitals.”

“I can help with that,” Martin says. “I’ve got a friend. He’s a licensed physician who is open to making home-visits. I suppose he could help us here.”

“Alright, there’s that, but will we be allowed back inside the flat considering Paul is most likely sick with a virus that has _no known cure?”_

“I can text Mrs. Gladstone, if tha’ will be of any help. I’m sure she’ll consider, at least,” Ringo suggests.

“And if she doesn’t allow it?”

“Then we’ll have to ask Mr. McCartney for permission to stay at his residence. Paul is his son, and it is unlikely for him to reject Paul when he is enduring a great difficulty,” Brian states. John knows he’s correct, but he still feels an immense reluctance to accept that fact. Despite being Paul’s beau, Jim has yet to fully accept John (despite John’s belief that the possibility of that ever happening was non-existent). It had troubled both John and Paul deeply at first, but when civility was attained between Jim and John, it was easy to set such worries from their minds. Still, it would be an awkward situation for John to be in, if he had to be under the constant scrutiny of Jim McCartney.

_But if Paul needs it, then, by god, just let it be already,_ John thought.

“Ye think he’ll allow Paul to stay? Mike still lives with ‘im, right?” Ringo asks.

“He does, but Jim allows him some time away. He’s grown enough for tha’. Last time Paul checked, that’s how it was. Dunno how it’ll be with this virus goin’ round the place,” John answers.

“I suppose I could make a call—” George begins to say, but he is swiftly interrupted by John.

“No… I’ll do it. This has nothin’ to do with the need to prove myself to ol’ Jim. I just… I’m supposed to take care of Paul, damn it, and still… _this_ happened.”

“John,” Martin says sternly. “Don’t you go blaming yourself for things that aren’t your fault. How could anyone have known that Mr. Amos was ill with the virus? How could anyone have known that he would be checking the mail alongside Paul that morning? It’s just a series of coincidences that led to an unfortunate outcome. Don’t beat yourself up for it.”

“All ye can really do now is move on and get it on, son,” Ringo says. “No point in cryin’ over spilled scotch—”

George whacks him on the back of his head. “It’s _milk,_ ya dolt.” He sighs. “But, really, they’re right, John. All we can do now is make sure Paul gets better. I know it seems pretty damned hopeless right now because _it’s a new virus_ and all that shite, but the one thing I hate about news stations is that they rarely show the full picture. Believe it or not, _many_ people do get better without needing to actually stay confined at a hospital.”

Brian looks up from his phone and clears his throat. “If I may add? Most casualties caused by the virus are those in their senior years or children below six years of age. Those who are in the middle of those age ranges have been shown to have pre-existing medical conditions. In other words, they were already sick prior to getting infected. We know Paul; he’s the fittest of us all. He would most likely recover as soon as a bit less than a week or so.”

“I don’t want to be the one to ruin the mood. However, I feel obligated to state that there is always the possibility of…” Martin trails off, stance anxious and brows knitted as if to fend himself from the unsavory thought.

They were all silent.

Ringo is the one to break the silence with a cheer of encouragement. “But I think that, if we manage this thing properly, we could make sure that doesn’t happen, aye?” he says.

George voices his agreement first, and Ringo gives him a thankful smile. The rest follow suit not long after.

Sitting on the rumpled sheets of Ringo’s bed, John takes his phone out of the right back pocket of his pants and scrolls through his contacts, fingers stopping as he views the name on his phone screen.

_Jim McCartney._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY I HOPE THE SMUT WASN'T BAD CAUSE THAT WAS THE FIRST TIME I ACTUALLY WROTE A SCENE LIKE THAT
> 
> ANYWAY THANK YOU FOR READING UP TO THIS POINT, AND I HOPE YOU STICK AROUND FOR THE REST OF THE STORY ::::))))))


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